PASSERS-BY 


They  were  a  partie  carre'e,  dining  out  of  doors  in  the  courtyard  of  an 
ancient  but  fashionable  Parisian  hotel. 

[Frontispiece.     Seep.  316 


PASSERS-BY 


BY 

ANTHONY    PARTRIDGE 

Author  of"  The  Kingdom  of  Earth ,"    "Tht 
Distributors"  etc. 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

WILL   FOSTER 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 
1910 


Copyright,  1908,  1909, 
BY  THE  McCtuRE  COMPANY. 

Copyright,  1910, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved 

Published  January,    1910 
Sixth  Printing 


8.  J.  PARKHILL  A  Co.,  BOSTON,  0.  8.  A. 


SRLF 
URL 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


They  were  a  partie  carree,  dining  out  of  doors  in 
the  courtyard  of  an  ancient  but  fashionable 
Parisian  hotel Frontispiece 

PAGE 
The  visitor  came,  unbidden,  a  little  farther  into 

the  room 23 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  him?"  he  asked, 

pointing  to  the  carriage 76 

"  Look  at  the  big  man  opposite,  with  the  little  girl 

in  red.     How  he  stares!" 81 

She  advanced  with  slow,  hesitating  footsteps  toward 

the  spot  where  the  man  was  lying     ....     121 

"  Marquis  of  Ellingham  I "  he  cried.    "  Lord  Elling- 

ham,  indeed!" 179 

The  weight  of  the  girl  was  heavy  upon  his  arm. 

She  had  fainted 216 

"I  am  not  here  to-night  to  pose  as  a  person  who 

by  chance  has  stumbled  across  a  secret "    .     .     278 


PASSERS-BY 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  was  nothing  particularly  inviting  about  the 
dark,  stone-flagged  passage,  nothing  which  could 
possibly  suggest  a  happy  hunting-ground  for  the  itiner- 
ant seeker  after  charity.  Yet  the  couple  passing 
wearily  along  the  Strand  welcomed  it  as  at  least  a  tem- 
porary refuge  from  the  constant  admonitions  of  a  very 
vigilant  police.  A  word  and  a  glance  were  all  that  passed 
between  the  girl  and  the  atom  of  deformity  who  wheeled 
the  small  piano.  They  crossed  the  sidewalk,  and  made 
their  way  down  the  inhospitable-looking  passage.  It  led 
by  a  somewhat  devious  route  to  the  Embankment,  but  at 
the  present  moment  passers-by  were  few.  On  the  left- 
hand  side  were  a  couple  of  shops,  dirty,  ill-cared  for, 
improvident.  On  the  right,  a  blank  wall ;  in  front,  a  small 
section  of  a  great  hotel.  About  halfway  down  was  a  gas- 
lamp,  burning  with  a  dim,  uncertain  luster,  feebly  reflected 
through  the  dirt-encrusted  glass.  The  place  had  an  un- 
attractive and  deserted  air.  Nevertheless  the  man  who 

i 


2  PASSERS-BY 

had  been  wheeling  the  piano  brought  it  to  a  standstill 
there,  with  a  little  gasp  of  relief.  The  girl  stood  by  his 
side,  and  for  a  moment  buried  her  face  upon  her  folded 
arms,  leaning  upon  the  top  of  the  instrument.  With  a 
prodigious  yawn  a  small  monkey,  who  had  been  asleep 
in  a  basket,  awoke  and  shook  himself.  He  looked  around 
with  an  air  of  plaintive  disgust,  and  would  have  settled 
himself  down  to  sleep  again  but  for  a  pat  from  his  master. 

"Sit  up,  Chicot,"  the  man  ordered.  "It 's  a  poor  place, 
but  God  knows  where  one  may  rest  in  this  city.  What  do 
you  say,  Christine?  Is  it  worth  while?" 

The  girl  looked  up  and  down  the  dark  passage.  Two 
boys  passed,  whistling,  without  a  glance  at  them.  A 
beggar  woman  selling  matches  was  the  only  other  person 
in  sight.  Nevertheless  she  produced  a  roll  of  music  and 
glanced  through  it. 

"I  will  sing,"  she  said.  "I  must.  Some  fool  may  pass 
this  way.  Who  can  tell?" 

The  man  at  the  piano,  deformed,  with  the  long,  worn 
face  of  a  man  and  the  misshapen  body  of  a  youth,  drew 
in  a  little  breath  which  sounded  like  a  hiss,  as  his  fingers 
wandered  over  the  keys. 

"Who  can  tell  ?"  he  muttered,  in  a  voice  which  sounded 
singularly  deep  for  such  a  small  creature.  "  Who  can  tell, 
after  all?  It  may  be  even  here  that  the  great  adventure 
should  come." 


PASSERS-BY  3 

She  turned  her  back  a  little  upon  him,  and  as  he  struck 
the  notes  she  began  to  sing  a  familiar  ballad.  She  sang  to 
the  bare  walls,  to  the  deserted  shops,  to  the  rain-soaked 
flagstones.  Chance  seemed  suddenly  to  have  diverted 
into  other  thoroughfares  even  the  insignificant  stream  of 
people  that  sometimes  filtered  through  the  little  passage. 
Only  the  monkey  listened,  listened  with  his  head  a  little 
on  one  side,  and  an  air  of  intense,  plaintive  interest. 
When  she  had  finished  there  was  a  dead  silence.  Not  a 
soul  was  in  sight. 

No  remark  passed  between  the  two.  The  woman 
pushed  her  hat  a  little  farther  back  as  she  bent  once  more 
over  the  music,  and  one  saw  something  of  her  face  by  the 
light  of  that  ill-looking  gas-lamp.  She  was  dark,  and 
whatever  good  looks  might  have  been  hers  under  normal 
conditions  were  temporarily,  at  any  rate,  unrecognizable, 
owing  to  the  ill-kept  hair  which  came  low  over  her  fore- 
head, and  the  bitter,  sullen  lines  of  her  mouth.  She  drew 
another  song  from  the  shabby  portfolio,  and  once  more 
she  sang. 

A  messenger  boy,  passing  through,  lingered  for  a  mo- 
ment. A  woman  with  a  basket  of  apples  propped  it  up 
against  the  wall,  and  gave  herself  a  second's  rest,  hurrying 
on,  though,  when  she  saw  the  monkey  fingering  the  little 
tray  that  hung  from  a  cord  round  his  neck.  Once  more 
the  girl  finished  her  song,  and  as  its  echoes  died  away  she 


4  PASSERS-BY 

swept  the  passage  from  end  to  end  with  her  sullen,  angry 
eyes.  There  was  no  one  in  sight.  She  leaned  back  against 
the  wall. 

Up  on  the  fifth  floor  of  the  great  hotel,  a  narrow  section 
of  which  fronted  the  passage,  a  man  suddenly  pushed 
open  a  window  and  looked  down.  He  saw  the  rain- 
soaked  pavements,  and  turned  back  to  the  valet  who  was 
putting  out  his  clothes. 

"It 's  a  wet  night,  Fred,"  he  remarked.  "I  '11  have  my 
thicker  patent  shoes,  and  my  opera-hat." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  the  window  when  his 
eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon  the  little  group  below.  He  eyed 
them  at  first  carelessly  enough,  and  then,  as  he  continued 
to  look,  a  startling  change  took  place  in  his  face.  He 
leaned  forward  out  of  the  wide-opened  window.  His  lips 
were  parted,  his  eyes  almost  distended.  He  was  like  a 
man  who  looks  upon  some  impossible  vision,  a  man  who 
is  driven  to  doubt  even  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  In- 
tensely, with  a  rapt  air  of  complete  obsession,  he  stood 
there,  perfectly  rigid,  gazing  at  that  little  group.  He 
looked  at  the  man,  sitting  before  the  crazy  instrument, 
his  head  bowed,  the  rain  beating  upon  his  threadbare 
coat.  He  looked  at  the  girl,  leaning  back  against  the  wall, 
motionless  as  a  statue,  and  yet  with  that  touch  of  hope- 
lessness about  her  face  which  was  written  large  in  the 
features  of  her  companion.  He  looked  at  the  monkey, 


PASSERS-BY  5 

who  stood  with  a  pitiful  air  of  his  own,  shaking  in  his  paw 
the  little  tray,  and  gazing  up  and  down  the  empty  passage. 
He  looked  at  them  all  fiercely,  incredulously,  and  then  an 
exclamation  broke  from  his  lips. 

"The  girl,  the  hunchback,  and  the  monkey!"  he  ex- 
claimed softly.  "  In  London,  of  all  places ! " 

He  turned  abruptly  back  into  the  room,  and  without 
a  word  of  explanation  to  the  valet  hurried  out  into  the 
corridor  and  rang  the  bell  for  the  elevator.  In  a  moment 
or  two  he  was  in  the  passage,  and  with  a  whispered  breath 
of  relief  he  saw  that  the  little  company  was  still  there.  He 
had  caught  up  a  hat  as  he  left  the  room,  and  to  give  him- 
self more  the  appearance  of  a  casual  passer-by  he  lit  a 
cigarette  with  trembling  fingers,  and  strolled  along  the 
passage.  As  he  came,  the  monkey,  the  man,  and  the  girl 
turned  their  heads.  The  girl,  with  something  like  a  de- 
spairing shrug  of  the  shoulders,  began  another  song.  The 
man  commenced  to  play.  Even  the  monkey  seemed  to 
eye  this  newcomer  hungrily.  He  walked  steadily  on,  but 
as  he  was  in  the  act  of  passing,  he  paused,  as  though  aware 
for  the  first  time  of  the  girl  and  her  song.  He  went  on  a 
few  paces  and  paused  again.  Finally  he  took  up  a  position 
a  few  yards  away,  and  established  himself  as  an  audience. 
His  coming  seemed  to  bring  better  fortune  to  the  little 
group  Several  other  passers-by  formed  a  broken  semi- 
circle. The  girl  sang  to  them  in  a  hard,  unsympathetic 


6  PASSERS-BY 

voice,  flawless  as  to  her  notes,  but  with  an  indifferent  in- 
tonation as  though  the  words  were  flung  from  her  lips 
against  her  will.  When  she  had  finished,  the  monkey  was 
on  his  hind  legs  before  the  little  gathering  of  listeners.  A 
few  pennies  rattled  in  his  tin  tray.  He  paused  in  front  of 
the  man  who  had  descended  so  suddenly  from  his  room. 
Gilbert  Hannaway  thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers  pock- 
ets, only  to  withdraw  them  with  a  little  exclamation  of 
annoyance.  He  drew  a  step  nearer  to  the  girl. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  wished  to  give  you 
something  for  your  song,  but  I  have  left  my  money  in  my 
room.  It  is  only  a  short  distance  off.  If  you  will  wait 
here  for  a  few  moments  it  will  give  me  very  great  pleasure 
to  offer  you  something  perhaps  a  little  better  worth  having 
than  these." 

He  touched  the  pennies  in  the  tin  tray,  and  looked  up  at 
the  girl.  Her  dark  eyes  searched  his  face  for  a  moment 
doubtfully. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said;  "it  doesn't  seem  much  use 
stopping  here.  Perhaps  you  '11  give  us  something  next 
time." 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  wish  to  give  you  something  now. 
Meanwhile,  will  you  sing  one  more  song?" 

A  faint  surprise,  not  unmingled  with  suspicion, gleamed  in 
the  girl's  dark  eyes.  "  Why  do  you  want  to  hear  me  sing  ?  " 
she  asked.  "My  voice  is  impossible.  You  know  that" 


PASSERS-BY  7 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  he  answered  gently.  "If  you  will 
sing  one  more  song,  I  should  like  to  listen.  Then  I  will 
go  to  my  rooms,  and  I  think  that  I  can  satisfy  you  both." 
She  looked  at  him  steadfastly.  "  Where  are  your  rooms  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"Close  by  here,"  he  answered  evasively. 

She  pointed  up  to  the  window  out  of  which  he  had 
leaned. 

"Was  it  you,"  she  asked,  "who  looked  down  at  us  from 
there?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  denial  seemed  scarcely 
worth  while. 

"It  was  I,"  he  admitted.  "I  was  just  going  to  change 
my  clothes.  That  is  why  I  have  no  money  in  my 
pocket." 

"Why  did  you  come  down?"  she  asked. 

"I  wished  to  hear  you  sing,"  he  answered. 

The  shadow  of  a  new  emotion  was  in  her  face.  She  was 
afraid.  All  the  time  the  man  by  her  side  was  listening 
with  half-closed  eyes. 

"Was  it  that  only?"  she  asked.  "Had  you  no  other 
reason?" 

The  man  was  called  upon  to  make  a  decision,  and  he 
felt  himself  unequal  to  it.  They  were  alone  in  the  passage 
now,  for  the  other  loiterers  had  passed  on.  The  deformed 
man,  from  his  seat  in  front  of  the  piano,  the  monkey,  and 


8  PASSERS-BY 

the  girl  were  all  looking  at  him.  And  Gilbert  Hanna- 
way,  because  he  was  honest,  spoke  the  truth. 

"No,"  he  said.     "I  had  another  reason." 

A  word,  or  was  it  only  a  glance,  flashed  from  the  girl  to 
the  man.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  His  seat  disappeared. 
Chicot  jumped  into  his  basket.  With  a  slight  gesture  of 
stiffness  the  hunchback  once  more  took  hold  of  the  handles 
of  the  barrow  on  which  his  crazy  instrument  was  placed. 
The  girl  turned  to  join  him. 

"We  do  not  want  your  money,"  she  said.  "Please  go 
away." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  planted  himself  obstinately  before  her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  must  not  send  me  away  like 
this.  I  have  been  searching  for  you  for  years." 

"  Absurd ! "  she  declared.  "  You  do  not  even  know  who 
we  are." 

"I  do  not  know  your  names,"  he  answered.  "They 
do  not  concern  me.  And  yet  I  have  searched  in  many 
places  for  a  hunchback  who  played  the  piano,  a  girl  with 
black  hah*  who  sang,  and  a  monkey.  Send  your  thoughts 
backward  a  little  way.  Do  you  remember  the  afternoon 
when  you  sang  in  the  Place  Madeleine?" 

Only  the  girl's  eyes  moved,  but  it  was  enough.  Her 
companion  quietly  relinquished  the  handles  of  his  strange 
little  vehicle.  He  took  a  step  backward.  The  newcomer 
saw  nothing.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  girl. 


PASSERS-BY  9 

"I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,"  he  repeated,  "and  I 
think  you  know  what  it  is." 

Then  the  world  spun  round  with  him.  The  little  dark 
passage  began  to  wobble  up  and  down.  The  thunder  of 
the  sea  was  in  his  ears,  the  girl's  face  mocked  him.  Then 
there  was  darkness. 

When  he  came  to  he  was  sitting  with  his  back  against 
the  wall,  the  center  of  a  little  group  of  idlers.  A  policeman 
stood  by  his  side,  and  another,  who  had  been  performing 
first-aid  work,  was  on  his  knees. 

"Feeling  better,  sir?"  the  policeman  asked. 

Hannaway  raised  his  hand  to  his  head. 

"I  would  n't  touch  it,  sir,"  the  man  said.  "You  have  a 
nasty  scalp  wound.  How  did  it  happen?" 

Hannaway,  still  dazed,  looked  around  him.  There  was 
no  sign  of  the  hunchback  or  the  monkey  or  the  girl.  He 
drew  a  little  breath  and  collected  his  thoughts. 

"The  pavement  is  slippery,"  he  said.  "I  was  hurrying, 
and  I  fell.  My  name  is  Gilbert  Hannaway,  and  I  live  in 
the  hotel  there.  If  you  will  give  me  your  arm,  I  think  I 
can  get  back  to  my  rooms." 

He  staggered  up.  With  a  policeman  on  either  side  of 
him,  he  made  his  way  slowly  back  into  the  hotel  from 
which  he  had  issued  a  few  minutes  before. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUT  once  more  into  the  Strand,  unnoticed,  unsus- 
pected, the  little  company  wound  its  way.  The 
man,  bent  almost  double,  so  that  his  deformity  was  even 
exaggerated,  pushed  his  barrow  and  forged  ahead  at  a 
speed  which  was  almost  incredible.  The  girl  walked  by 
his  side  with  swift,  even  footsteps,  and  with  downcast 
head.  The  monkey  slept. 

Once  the  man  paused,  but  the  girl  shook  her  head. 

"Not  again  to-night,"  she  said.  "We  may  as  well 
starve  at  home  as  in  jail.  You  strike  too  hard." 

"It  was  the  wrong  man?"  he  muttered. 

"It  was  the  wrong  man,"  she  assented,  in  dull,  lifeless 
tones.  "You  know  that." 

Down  the  Savoy  hill,  along  the  Embankment,  and 
across  Waterloo  Bridge  they  made  their  unhesitating  way. 
Near  the  farther  end,  the  girl  for  the  first  time  paused. 
She  turned  around  and  looked  across  the  river,  inky  black, 
to  the  long  sweep  of  lights  which  bordered  the  Embank- 
ment. She  looked  beyond,  to  where  the  two  great  hotels 
seemed  to  vie  with  each  other  in  a  blaze  of  light,  reflected 
far  across  the  gloomy  waters.  Farther  still,  to  where  the 


PASSERS-BY  11 

Houses  of  Parliament  shone  with  a  somewhat  subdued 
glory.  Across  the  sky  beyond  hung  the  golden  haze  of  a 
million  lights,  the  reflection  from  the  great  seething  heart 
of  London  caught  up  and  mirrored  in  the  clouds.  She 
looked  at  it  steadfastly,  with  a  scowl  upon  her  sullen  face. 

"So  this  is  London!"  she  muttered.  "I  wish  —  oh! 
I  wish  — " 

Her  companion  dropped  the  handles  of  the  barrow  with 
a  little  gesture  of  weariness.  He  was  glad  of  the  moment's 
rest.  "You  wish?"  he  murmured.  "Goon!" 

She  raised  her  arms  with  an  impulsive  gesture.  Her 
face  was  suddenly  illuminated  with  a  bitter  transfiguring 
light. 

"I  wish  I  were  a  prophetess  from  behind  the  ages,"  she 
cried.  "I  wish  I  could  call  down  fire  and  brimstone  upon 
every  street  and  house  whose  lights  go  flaring  up  to  the 
sky.  They  are  not  men  and  women  any  longer,  these 
people  who  walk  the  streets,  who  jostle  us  from  the  side- 
walk. They  are  beasts  1  They  have  the  mark  of  the 
beast  upon  their  foreheads.  They  throw  their  pennies 
with  a  curse.  They  hunt  for  pleasure  like  wolves.  Not 
one  smile,  not  one  have  I  seen  to-day ! " 

The  man,  too,  looked  up  at  the  reddened  sky.  "And 
yet,"  he  muttered,  "somewhere  underneath  there  lies 
fortune  —  fortune  for  you,  Christine.  Gold,  rest,  luxury," 
he  added,  glancing  at  her  stealthily. 


12  PASSERS-BY 

"And  for  you,  too,  Ambrose,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  faint 
softening  of  her  tone. 

He  picked  up  the  handles  of  his  barrow,  avoiding  her 
gaze.  "Perhaps,"  he  muttered.  "Perhaps." 

They  continued  their  pilgrimage;  the  end  was  not  far 
off.  The  man  turned  up  a  passage  with  the  piano.  The 
girl  entered  a  small  shop  and  made  some  humble  pur- 
chases. They  met,  a  few  minutes  later,  in  the  stuffy  hall 
of  a  neglected,  smoke-begrimed  house,  in  the  middle  of  a 
row  of  similar  buildings.  Silently  they  made  their  way  into 
a  back  sitting-room.  The  floor  was  bare  of  any  carpet, 
the  paper  hung  down  in  strips  from  the  walls,  the  wooden 
mantelpiece  knew  no  ornaments.  The  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  was  covered  with  a  sheet  of  hard  oilskin, 
stained  in  many  places.  The  two  cane  chairs  were  of  odd 
design.  One  had  only  three  legs ;  the  other  had  a  hole  in 
the  middle,  where  the  cane  had  worn  away.  The  only 
sound  article  of  furniture  was  a  horsehair  sofa,  and  of  this 
the  springs  were  almost  visible.  The  girl  threw  herself 
upon  it  with  a  little  sob. 

The  man  watched  her  for  several  moments,  apparently 
unmoved.  In  the  room  his  deformity  seemed  more  ap- 
parent. He  was  less  than  five  feet  high,  and  his  head  and 
features  were  large  for  a  full-grown  man's.  His  face  had 
gone  unshaven  for  so  long  that  his  expression  was  almost 
unrecognizable.  Yet  his  eyes  seemed  soft  as  he  watched 


PASSERS-BY  13 

the  girl,  shaking  all  over  now  with  her  sudden  storm  of 
grief.  Her  hat,  with  its  poor  little  cluster  of  flowers,  had 
fallen  to  the  floor;  her  black  hair  was  streaming  over  her 
face,  pressed  hard  into  the  round  unsympathetic  pillow. 
Chicot  jumped  upon  the  man's  shoulder  as  he  stood  and 
watched;  the  man  caressed  him  with  gentle  touch.  The 
girl  he  left  alone. 

Presently  Ambrose  abandoned  his  watch  and  commenced 
to  busy  himself  about  the  room.  He  lighted  an  oil-stove, 
opened  the  parcel  which  the  girl  had  been  carrying,  and 
placed  its  contents  in  a  small  frying-pan.  From  a  deal 
cupboard  he  produced  a  tablecloth  and  some  articles  of 
crockery,  every  one  of  which  he  carefully  rubbed  over  with 
a  cloth.  Then  he  slipped  out  of  the  room  for  a  minute, 
and  returned  with  a  small  bottle  of  red  wine  and  a  bunch 
of  violets,  which  he  arranged  in  the  middle  of  the  table. 
When  all  was  ready  he  touched  the  girl  on  the  shoulder. 
"Christine,"  he  said  softly,  "there  is  supper  ready." 

"I  will  not  eat,"  she  answered  sullenly.  "It  is  a  pigsty, 
this  place." 

Nevertheless  she  sat  up,  and  for  a  moment  her  face 
softened  when  she  saw  the  preparations  which  he  had 
made.  She  seated  herself  ungraciously  at  the  table. 

"  Wine !"  she  protested.  "It  is  ridiculous !  To-morrow 
we  shall  starve  for  this.  Give  me  some,  please.  I  am 
shivering." 


14  PASSERS-BY 

He  filled  her  glass.  "You  should  take  off  your  wet 
jacket,"  he  urged. 

"I  cannot,"  she  answered  bitterly.  "I  threw  away  my 
last  blouse  yesterday.  There  is  nothing  on  my  arms  un- 
derneath, and  they  are  cold." 

A  spasm  crossed  his  face.  "  We  cannot  go  on  like  this," 
he  muttered.  "To-morrow  I  shall  steal." 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  is  not  easy  here,"  she  said 
gloomily.  "The  police  are  everywhere.  Ambrose,"  she 
added,  looking  across  at  him  steadfastly,  "do  you  think 
that  you  hurt  him  very  much  this  evening?" 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "He  was  only  stunned," 
he  answered.  "  He  will  recover  quickly.  I  saw  his  face 
as  I  struck.  I  think,  Christine,  that  there  will  be  trouble. 
He  will  search  again  for  us." 

She  shivered  a  little.  "I  am  afraid,"  she  muttered. 
"Give  me  some  more  wine,  Ambrose.  It  warms  my 
blood." 

Obediently  he  filled  her  glass.  His  own  was  as  yet  un- 
touched. 

"It  is  —  the  other  one  we  want,"  she  continued,  drop- 
ping her  voice  a  little.  "  Think  what  he  owes  us,  Am- 
brose. He  is  free  and  he  is  rich.  I  hate  him  —  I  hated 
him  from  the  first;  but  he  shall  pay  for  it.  All  this  time 
he  has  hidden,  and  we  have  starved.  Think  of  it,  Am- 
brose, think  of  it!" 


PASSERS-BY  15 

The  hunchback  moved  in  his  chair  uneasily.  "We  shall 
never  find  him,"  he  muttered.  "With  four  million  francs, 
a  man  can  live  like  a  prince  anywhere  —  even  in  the  far 
corners  of  the  world.  Think  of  the  countries  which  we 
can  never  visit,  —  South  America,  the  United  States, 
Brazil,  Chile,  Peru !  Our  search  is  a  mad  thing." 

"I  do  not  believe,"  she  said,  "that  he  is  in  any  of  those 
places.  Ambrose,  is  London  a  very  large  city?" 

"The  largest  in  the  world,"  he  answered.  "One  man 
in  it  is  lost  like  a  berry  upon  the  hedges.  One  may  seek 
for  a  lifetime  in  vain  —  and  meantime  one  starves." 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  expression  was  sullen  but  de- 
termined. "I  will  find  him,"  she  declared.  "I  will  seek 
and  seek  until  the  day  comes  when  I  see  him  standing 
before  me." 

"And  then?"  Ambrose  asked  softly. 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  up  at  the  ceiling 
through  half-closed  eyes.  "  And  then,"  she  repeated,  "  the 
great  adventure !  It  must  come  then !  It  shall  come ! " 

Gilbert  Hannaway  spent  his  evening  in  bed,  his  head 
bandaged  and  still  painful.  Toward  midnight  he  awoke 
from  a  long  doze  and  rang  for  a  drink.  He  was  young  and 
strong,  and  already  he  was  beginning  to  feel  himseff  again. 
When  the  waiter  had  left  the  room  he  lifted  the  receiver 
from  the  telephone  which  stood  by  the  side  of  his  bed. 


16  PASSERS-BY 

"I  want  the  residence  of  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham," 
he  said.  "It  is  in  Cavendish  Square,  I  believe." 

In  a  moment  the  bell  tinkled.  He  took  the  receiver 
once  more  into  his  hand. 

"This  is  Lord  Ellingham's  house,"  a  quiet  voice  said. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Lord  Ellingham,"  Gilbert  Hanna- 
way  answered. 

"Who  are  you?"  was  the  reply.  "I  am  Lord  Elling- 
ham's secretary.  I  can  give  him  any  message." 

"  I  must  speak  to  him  personally,"  Hannaway  answered. 
"He  would  not  understand  if  I  told  you  my  name.  The 
matter  is  an  important  one." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Hannaway  heard  the 
sound  of  voices  at  the  other  end.  Then  some  one  else 
spoke,  briefly,  imperatively. 

"I  am  Lord  Ellingham.    What  do  you  want?" 

"To  give  your  lordship  some  valuable  information," 
Hannaway  said.  "Listen!" 

"Who  are  you  ?"  the  voice  at  the  other  end  asked. 

"It  does  not  matter,"  Hannaway  answered.  "Listen 
while  I  tell  you  what  I  saw  this  evening,  in  London, 
within  a  mile  of  Cavendish  Square.  I  saw  a  dark-haired 
girl  singing  in  the  streets  —  a  dark-haired  girl,  a  hunch- 
back, and  a  monkey!" 

Hannaway  heard  the  receiver  at  the  other  end  go  clat- 


PASSERS-BY  17 

tering  down.  There  was  silence  for  some  moments. 
Then  a  voice  again,  the  same  voice,  but  it  seemed  to  come 
from  a  long  way  off. 

"Who  are  you?"  it  demanded.  "For  God's  sake,  tell 
me  who  you  are!" 

"An  unknown  friend,  or  enemy,  whichever  you  like," 
Hannaway  answered.  "I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Stop ! "  the  voice  insisted.    "  I  must  know  —  " 

Hannaway  laid  down  the  receiver,  disconnecting  it  with 
the  instrument.  Then  he  turned  over  on  his  side.  "In 
London!"  he  muttered  softly  to  himself.  "What  will 
come  of  it,  I  wonder  ?  Lord,  how  my  head  aches ! " 

Nevertheless  he  closed  his  eyes  and  slept  —  slept  better 
by  far  than  the  great  statesman  with  whom  he  had  been 
talking. 


CHAPTER  IH 

IN  what  corner  of  that  squalid  lodging-house  Ambrose 
Drake  slept  no  one  save  he  and  Chicot  knew.  At 
seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  he  appeared  from  some- 
where underground,  and  with  a  little  package  under  his 
arm  turned  breakfastless  into  the  street.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  was  selling  matches  under  one  of  the  arches  of 
London  Bridge.  For  some  time  the  stream  of  people  was 
constant,  and  the  pennies  he  received  were  fairly  frequent. 
When  the  passers-by  began  to  thin  he  left  his  place,  and 
crossing  the  street,  bought  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  roll  at  the 
stall  upon  which  his  hungry  eyes  had  been  fixed  for  some 
time.  Afterward  he  walked  back  to  the  lodging-house, 
and  turned  into  the  little  sitting-room  where  he  and  his 
companion  had  sat  the  night  before.  With  the  ah*  of  one 
used  to  such  duties,  he  lighted  the  stove,  made  coffee  in  a 
scrupulously  clean  pot,  and  arranged  it,  with  the  rolls  and 
butter  which  he  had  bought  on  his  homeward  way,  on  a 
tray.  Then  he  went  to  the  door  and  called  out,  and  pres- 
ently a  small  child,  ill-dressed  and  ragged,  came  into  the 
room.  He  pointed  to  the  tray. 

"Take  it  up  carefully,"  he  said.    "See  that  you  do  not 


PASSERS-BY  19 

spill  the  coffee.  Tell  the  young  lady  that  it  is  wet,  and 
that  she  had  better  rest.  Say  that  I  am  gone  out  for  an 
hour  —  perhaps  longer." 

The  child  took  up  the  tray  and  carried  it  up  the  bare 
stairs.  Once  more  Drake  left  the  house.  This  time  he 
turned  northward,  crossed  the  bridge,  made  an  inquiry  of 
a  policeman  whom  he  approached  with  some  hesitation, 
and  followed  the  directions  given.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
found  himself  inside  a  large  public  library.  The  assistant 
behind  the  desk  handed  him  the  book  he  asked  for  with  a 
smile.  He  took  it  to  a  table  in  the  reference-room,  and 
began  his  search.  In  less  than  five  minutes  he  had  found 
what  he  wanted.  He  drew  a  little  breath  between  his 
teeth.  There  it  was,  easy  to  read,  easy  to  understand  — 
"Francis  William  George  Cuthbertson  Ellingham,  Sixth 
Marquis."  He  passed  rapidly  over  the  titles  and  honors 
set  forth  in  nearly  half  a  page  of  black  type.  He  took  no 
interest  in  the  country-seats  or  pursuits  of  the  man  whose 
pedigree  was  here  blazoned  out.  The  town  address,  11 
Cavendish  Square  —  that  was  what  he  wanted. 

He  closed  the  book,  returned  it  over  the  desk  to  the 
young  man,  who  looked  at  him  once  more  with  a  faintly 
curious  smile,  and  walked  out  into  the  street.  Presently 
he  found  himself  standing  upon  the  doorstep  of  an  im- 
posing mansion,  and  enduring  the  surprised  stare  of  a 
very  dignified  person  in  plain  black  clothes. 


20  PASSERS-BY 

"His  lordship  is  at  home,"  the  man  admitted,  "but  he 
is  not  up.  In  any  case,  he  sees  no  one  without  an 
appointment." 

The  man  would  have  closed  the  door,  but  Drake's  foot 
was  in  the  way.  "His  lordship  will  see  me,"  he  said. 
"Let  me  speak  to  his  secretary,  or  some  one  by  whom  I 
can  send  a  message." 

A  young  man,  smooth  shaven,  well  dressed,  came  stroll- 
ing down  the  hall,  evidently  on  his  way  into  the  street.  He 
looked  with  surprise  at  the  queer  little  object  who  was 
standing  just  inside  the  door. 

"Who  is  this,  Graves?"  he  asked. 

"A  person  inquiring  for  his  lordship,  sir,"  the  servant 
answered.  "I  was  just  closing  the  door." 

"You  had  better  tell  me  what  you  want,"  said  the  young 
man,  addressing  Drake.  "I  am  the  Marquis  of  filling- 
ham's  secretary." 

"My  business  is  with  the  marquis  himself,"  Drake  an- 
swered, with  something  in  his  tone  which  was  almost  a 
snarl.  "  Look  at  me.  Look  at  me  well.  Now  go  and  tell 
your  master  that  the  person  whom  you  can  describe  is  here 
to  see  him.  Don't  flatter  me.  Tell  him  what  I  am  like." 

The  young  man  was  on  the  point  of  making  a  curt  reply. 
Suddenly  he  paused.  He  remembered  how,  the  night  be- 
fore, he  had  seen  the  telephone  slip  from  the  nerveless 
fingers  of  the  marquis,  and  his  face  suddenly  grow  white 


PASSERS-BY  21 

as  though  with  fear.  He  wondered  for  a  moment  if  the 
coming  of  this  strange  individual  had  anything  to  do  with 
that  mysterious  message.  He  turned  on  his  heel. 

"Keep  this  person  here  for  a  few  minutes,  Graves,"  he 
said.  "I  will  go  up  and  see  his  lordship." 

The  marquis,  who  by  reason  of  a  long  residence  abroad 
had  acquired  Continental  habits,  was  sitting  half  dressed 
in  a  sitting-room  leading  out  from  his  sleeping  apartments. 
On  the  round  table  by  his  side  was  a  light  but  daintily  ar- 
ranged breakfast  tray,  a  bowl  of  flowers,  and  a  pile  of 
letters.  He  looked  up  as  the  young  man  entered. 

"Not  gone  yet,  then,  Penton?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  just  leaving,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered. 
"There  is  a  very  strange  person  down  in  the  hall,  who 
insists  upon  seeing  you.  He  would  not  give  a  name,  and 
he  wished  me  to  describe  him  to  you.  I  am  afraid  I  ought 
not  to  have  troubled  you,  but  he  is  such  a  queer  little 
object,  and  he  seemed  so  much  in  earnest." 

The  marquis  sat  quite  still  in  his  chair,  and  his  eyes 
remained  fixed  on  the  young  man,  who  stood,  hat  in  hand, 
upon  the  threshold.  His  face  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
become  almost  rigid,  expressionless,  and  yet  there  was 
something  in  the  set,  helpless  gaze  which  spoke  of  fear. 
The  young  man  noticed  that  the  long  white  fingers  which 
held  the  newspaper  were  shaking.  He  came  a  step  farther 
into  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 


22  PASSERS-BY 

"Shall  I  see  this  person  for  you,  sir?"  he  asked  slowly. 
"He  is  not  exactly  a  pleasant-looking  individual." 

The  marquis  found  his  voice,  and  with  it  regained  some 
of  his  self-possession.  "So  I  should  imagine,"  he  said, 
"from  your  description.  I  think  I  know  what  he  wants. 
I  will  see  him  myself.  You  can  bring  him  up  here,  and 
then  go  on  to  the  city." 

The  young  man  withdrew.  As  he  descended  the  stairs 
a  frown  darkened  his  good-humored  features.  He  was 
fond  of  the  man  whom  he  had  served  for  the  last  three 
years,  and  he  recognized  surely  enough  the  coming  of 
tragedy  in  those  pale,  somewhat  worn  features.  What  it 
meant  he  could  not  tell.  He  had  no  clue  whatsoever,  yet 
he  did  his  errand  with  marked  unwillingness. 

"The  marquis  will  see  you,"  he  said  to  Drake.  "You 
can  follow  me  upstairs  to  his  room." 

Drake  showed  no  sign  of  exultation.  Never  once  did  he 
look  around  him,  although  his  surroundings  must  have 
seemed  in  strange  contrast  to  the  wretched  little  lodging- 
house  from  which  he  had  come.  He  was  heedless  of  the 
rich  carpet  pressed  by  his  muddy,  gaping  boots.  He 
passed  without  a  glance  the  famous  pictures  which  hung 
upon  the  walls,  the  many  evidences  of  wealth  and  luxury 
by  which  he  was  surrounded. 

They  reached  the  door  of  the  marquis's  room.  His 
guide  opened  it  and  ushered  him  in. 


The  visitor  came,  unbidden,  a  little  farther  into  the  room. 

[Page  23 


PASSERS-BY  23 

"This  is  the  person  who  wished  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said. 

The  marquis  folded  up  his  newspaper  and  nodded. 
"You  can  go,  Penton,"  he  said.  "Remember  that  I  ex- 
pect you  back  before  eleven." 

The  door  closed  behind  the  young  man.  The  visitor 
came,  unbidden,  a  little  farther  into  the  room.  As  though 
his  eyesight  were  at  fault,  he  shaded  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
with  his  hand,  and  looked  fixedly  at  the  man  whom  he 
had  come  to  see.  The  marquis  pointed  to  a  chair.  "Sit 
down,  if  you  like,"  he  said. 

"  I  prefer  to  stand,"  Drake  answered. 

"As  you  will,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "Tell  me,  in  as  few 
words  as  you  can,  exactly  what  you  want  of  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  RAY  of  winter  sunshine  came  stealing  through  the 
high  windows  of  the  room,  glancing  for  a  moment 
upon  the  faces  of  the  two  men,  faces  as  far  removed  from 
any  likeness  to  or  kinship  with  one  another  as  the  poles 
of  life  themselves.  Drake  was  dressed  in  the  shabbiest  of 
blue  serge  suits,  a  suit  made  for  a  boy,  short  in  the  arm, 
high  in  the  neck,  mud-stained,  and  shiny  with  wear.  His 
boots  had  holes  in  them.  His  low  collar  and  scrap  of  tie 
were  negligible  things.  His  face  was  of  a  length  out  of 
proportion  to  his  size;  the  chin  stubbly,  the  complexion 
pallid,  and  bearing  traces  of  his  daily  privations.  Only 
his  eyes  were  soft,  of  a  gray  which  deepened  sometimes 
almost  into  blue.  At  this  moment,  however,  they  were 
overcast  with  a  heavy  frown,  which  seemed  to  gather  in 
intensity  as  the  seconds  of  silence  passed. 

The  man  before  whom  he  stood  had  presence  enough 
and  had  borne  himself  bravely  on  many  great  occasions, 
but  at  that  moment  he  seemed  in  some  sense  to  have 
collapsed.  No  sense  of  his  stature  remained.  His  limbs 
were  drawn  closely  together,  his  shoulders  had  acquired 
a  new  stoop,  his  head  was  thrust  a  little  forward,  as 


PASSERS-BY  25 

though  he  were  forced  against  his  will  to  return  the 
earnest  gaze  of  his  visitor.  The  marquis  was  forty-six 
years  old,  and  called  himself  a  young  man.  He  had 
health  enough,  and  courage,  and  good  looks,  but  at  this 
moment  all  three  seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  The 
cords  of  life  had  suddenly  slackened.  He  was  face  to 
face  with  horrible  things,  and  the  nerve  which  should 
have  set  him  with  feet  firmly  planted  upon  the  ground  to 
face  the  crisis  was  gone. 

"It  has  been  a  long  search,"  Drake  said. 

"Since  it  is  at  an  end,  then,"  the  marquis  answered, 
"what  would  you  have  of  me?  Up  to  a  certain  point," 
he  added,  in  a  low,  uneasy  tone,  "I  am  in  your  hands. 
Do  you  see,  I  attempt  no  evasions.  I  say  that  I  am  in 
your  hands.  Go  on." 

Drake  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  It  was  not  a  pleasant 
sound,  that  laugh.  It  seemed  to  come  from  somewhere  at 
the  back  of  his  throat,  and  it  left  his  features  unmoved. 
"Milord  has  lost  his  courage,"  he  muttered.  "Why  don't 
you  have  me  thrown  into  the  gutter?" 

"Because,"  the  marquis  answered,  "your  snarl  would 
reach  me  from  there.  Is  the  —  I  mean  is  she  —  are  you 
alone?"  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  break  in  his  voice. 

Drake  shook  his  head.  "We  are  all  here,"  he  answered, 
''she  and  I  and  Chicot." 

The  marquis  shivered  a  little.    "Yes,  I  remember,"  he 


26  PASSERS-BY 

said,  half  to  himself.  "You,  with  your  tattered  brown 
overcoat,  that  cursed  animal,  and  the  girl.  You  have 
been  looking  for  me,  I  suppose?" 

"Over  half  the  world,"  Drake  answered.  "Up  and 
down  the  streets  and  along  the  byways  of  more  cities  than 
I  should  care  to  count.  We  have  watched  the  boulevards, 
the  restaurants,  the  clubs  of  Paris.  We  have  watched  the 
crowds  go  by  in  all  the  great  thoroughfares  where  one 
might  hope  to  find  a  man  such  as  you.  It  is  four  years 
since  we  started  on  the  search." 

"And  now?"  the  marquis  asked. 

"And  now,"  Drake  answered,  "I  have  come  to  warn 
you.  We  shall  be  here  in  this  city  for  months.  Get 
you  gone  out  of  it.  You  will  be  wiser." 

The  marquis  looked  startled  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
leaned  forward,  with  the  air  of  one  who  does  not  under- 
stand. Suddenly  his  expression  gave  way  to  one  of  posi- 
tive terror.  "You  don't  mean,"  he  faltered,  "that  you 
have  already,  without  coming  to  see  me  —  " 

"No,"  Drake  interrupted.  "We  have  done  nothing. 
We  have  said  nothing.  It  is  for  another  reason  that  I 
would  have  you  go." 

The  marquis  was  once  more  puzzled.  "You  tell  me," 
he  protested,  "  that  for  four  years  you  have  sought  me,  and 
yet,  now  that  you  have  succeeded  in  your  search,  you  tell 
me  to  go  away.  What  do  you  mean?" 


PASSERS-BY  27 

"It  is  not  I  who  have  sought  you,"  Drake  answered 
bitterly.  "It  is  she.  She  builds  dreams,  she  has  many 
fancies.  It  is  she  who  has  driven  us  round  the  world, 
from  place  to  place,  in  this  wild  quest.  Understand  me. 
It  is  I  who  have  found  you  out  She  has  not.  She  does 
not  know." 

"But  you  will  tell  her!"  the  marquis  exclaimed. 

"I  shall  not,"  Drake  answered.  "I  tell  you  that  all 
through  these  weary  months,  when  her  eyes  have  gone 
through  the  throngs,  seeking,  always  seeking,  mine  have 
followed  hers  with  a  dread  as  great  as  her  desire.  For  the 
first  time  in  my  life,  to-day  I  am  faithless  to  her.  I  come 
here  alone.  She  does  not  know,  and  I  would  have  you 
hurry  away  and  hide  yourself  before  chance  brings  you 
face  to  face  with  her." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  the  marquis  said  weakly. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  Drake  replied.  "  Yet  it  is  simple  enough. 
Look  at  me.  See  what  I  am  —  a  miserable  fragment  of  a 
man,  a  misshapen  creature,  the  scoff  of  passers-by,  an 
outcast.  Yet  such  as  I  am,  I  am  all  that  she  has.  It  is  I 
who  stand  by  her,  I  on  whom  she  relies  from  day  to  day 
for  bread  and  shelter.  If  she  finds  you,  there  will  be  an 
end  of  this,  there  will  be  an  end  of  me." 

The  marquis  drew  a  long  breath.  There  were  some 
signs  of  color  in  his  cheeks.  His  tone  had  gained  a  little 
strength.  He  was  no  longer  absolutely  a  stricken  thing. 


28  PASSERS-BY 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "that  she  would  have  no  more 
need  of  you?" 

"I  mean  that,"  Drake  answered.  "She  would  take  your 
gold.  I  would  n't.  She  would  be  a  great  lady,  while  I 
pushed  my  barrel,  ground  out  my  tunes,  and  pocketed 
the  pennies  for  which  Chicot  danced." 

Once  more  the  marquis  drew  a  long  breath.  This  time 
he  almost  whistled.  He  remembered  that  he  posed  some- 
times as  a  student  of  human  character,  that  he  was  a 
member  of  the  Ethnological  Society,  and  sometimes  at- 
tended its  discussions.  These  were  strange  words  to  come 
from  such  a  person.  "Tell  me,"  he  said,  "why  would 
you  not  take  my  gold?  You  have  only  to  speak,  you 
know  that." 

Drake  raised  his  eyes,  and  he  looked  the  marquis  straight 
in  the  face,  until  the  eyes  of  the  latter  drooped  and  fell. 
"You  know,"  he  answered. 

The  marquis  laughed  uneasily.  He  had  looked  away, 
but  the  fire  of  that  intent  gaze  seemed  still  to  be  burning 
its  way  into  his  consciousness.  "Well,"  he  said,  "you  are 
a  strange  mortal.  You  think,  then,  that  if  I  leave  London, 
say  to-morrow,  I  shall  not  see  her?" 

"You  will  go?"  Drake  asked. 

"I  will  go,"  the  marquis  answered. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  marquis  looked  at 
his  visitor,  and  saw  upon  his  person  the  signs  of  suffering. 


PASSERS-BY  29 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  "  there  is  any  real  reason  why 
you  should  not  take  a  trifle  of  money  from  me  —  twenty 
or  fifty  pounds,  at  any  rate?  You  need  new  clothes.  I 
should  imagine  that  you  need  many  things." 

"I  will  take  no  money,"  Drake  answered.  "Apart 
from  the  reason  which  you  know  of,  she  would  discover  it. 
She  sees  our  takings.  If  I  had  money  she  would  suspect. 
She  might  even  guess  the  truth.  And  if  she  knew  that," 
he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  she  would  never  forgive  me." 

The  marquis  looked  at  him  curiously.  "You  are  a 
strange  person,"  he  said.  "You  prefer  poverty,  priva- 
tions, and  all  the  squalid  discomforts  of  life,  just  for  the 
sake  of  having  that  girl  walk  by  your  side?" 

"I  do,"  Drake  answered.  "You  look  at  me  and  you 
wonder,  I  suppose.  You  think  that  a  creature  such  as  I 
am  has  no  right  to  the  heart  of  a  man.  Perhaps  you  are 
right.  I  do  not  know  that  it  matters." 

"Supposing,"  the  marquis  said,  "that  your  health  broke 
down,  and  the  girl  was  alone?" 

Drake  was  unmoved.  The  shadow  of  a  smile  played 
about  his  lips.  "I  have  had  that  fear,"  he  said,  "and  I 
have  provided  against  it." 

"At  the  same  time,"  the  marquis  said,  "I  cannot  see 
why  you  should  not  allow  me,  for  the  girl's  sake,  to  help 
you." 

"I  tell  you  that  I  will  not  touch  your  money,"  Ambrose 


30  PASSERS-BY 

answered.  "We  take  pennies  every  day  from  all  alike, 
from  thieves  and  vagabonds,  sinners  of  every  class.  But 
to  us  they  are  strangers,  they  are  just  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  the  world,  paying  their  tribute  as  they  pass  by. 
You  are  different.  We  know  who  you  are." 

The  marquis  rose  to  his  feet  with  an  uneasy  little  laugh. 
He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  the  pockets  of  his  quilted 
smoking-jacket,  and  he  stood  upright  on  his  hearth-rug, 
an  attitude  not  by  any  means  ungraceful.  "You  are  the 
strangest  person  I  ever  met  in  my  life,"  he  said  to  Drake. 
"Tell  me,  where  were  you  born?  Of  what  nation  are 
you  ?  Surely  you  speak  English  too  well  to  be  a  foreigner. 
If  such  a  thing  were  possible  —  " 

The  frown  upon  Drake's  face  was  like  the  frown  of  a 
man  rebuking  an  impertinence.  "My  family  history," 
he  said,  "would  scarcely  interest  you.  Such  as  it  is,  it 
belongs  to  myself." 

The  marquis  turned  toward  the  bell.  "There  is  noth- 
ing more?"  he  asked. 

"There  is  nothing  more,"  Drake  answered,  as  he  turned 
to  leave  the  room. 


CHAPTER   V 

IT  was  mid-November,  and  the  afternoons  were  short. 
Already  the  gas-lamps  were  lighted  when  Drake  re- 
entered  the  lodging-house,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
made  his  way  into  the  little  sitting-room  at  the  rear.  The 
girl  was  sitting  there,  with  a  pack  of  cards  spread  out  on 
the  table  before  her.  She  looked  up  as  he  entered,  and 
the  frown  upon  her  dark  sullen  face  grew  deeper. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  day  long,  Ambrose?"  she 
asked.  "Why  have  you  left  me  here  alone?" 

"It  was  wet,"  he  answered  quickly,  "too  wet  for  you  to 
go  out.  I  sold  matches  this  morning.  Since  then  I  have 
had  the  piano  out,  Chicot  and  I.  We  did  not  do  so  badly." 

She  looked  disdainfully  at  the  handful  of  coppers  which 
he  laid  upon  the  table.  "Faugh!"  she  exclaimed.  "It 
disgusts  me,  this  cheap  dirty  money." 

"We  live  by  it,"  he  answered  grimly. 

"It  has  stopped  raining,"  she  said.  "I  shall  go  out  now 
for  a  little  time.  I  have  on  my  thick  boots." 

"As  you  will,"  he  answered,  a  little  wearily.  "The 
piano  is  still  outside." 

"And  Chicot?"  she  asked. 


32  PASSERS-BY 

He  brought  into  evidence  the  canvas  bag  hung  over  his 
shoulder.  Chicot's  little  black  head  peered  out.  The 
girl  rose,  and  pinned  on  her  hat  before  the  cracked  looking- 
glass.  Not  even  the  careless  indifference  of  her  move- 
ments, or  her  shabby  clothes,  could  altogether  conceal 
the  elegant  lines  of  her  slim  young  figure. 

They  descended  to  the  street  together.  Drake  lifted  the 
handles  of  the  barrow  a  little  wearily.  For  two  hours  he 
had  been  grinding  out  his  wretched  music,  and  he  was 
weary. 

"Which  way?"  he  asked,  turning  eastward.  "I  think 
this  will  be  better." 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  She  pointed  across  the  river, 
to  where  the  lowering  skies  were  already  catching  the  re- 
flections from  the  flaring  signs  and  hotels  ablaze  with  light. 

"No,"  she  said  firmly.  "It  is  there  that  we  must  go. 
It  is  there  that  we  go  all  the  time.  You  forget,  Ambrose, 
that  it  is  not  for  our  miserable  pennies  that  I  walk  these 
wretched  streets.  It  is  for  the  search,  still  for  the  search ! " 

He  obeyed  her,  but  with  reluctance.  "You  forget  last 
night,"  he  said.  "We  may  be  seen.  He  may  have  in- 
formed the  police." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  did  not  hurt  him,"  she 
said.  "  What  can  he-  do  ?  He  cannot  make  us  speak.  I 
can  be  dumb,  and  so  can  you.  Come." 

They  crossed  the  bridge.     The  girl  walked  apart  and 


PASSERS-BY  33 

unseeing,  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the  deepening  glow 
in  the  skies.  Drake  groaned  a  little  to  himself  as  he  pushed 
the  barrow.  He  had  eaten  little,  and  his  limbs  were  stiff 
with  cold  and  wet.  Now  and  then  he  looked  wistfully 
toward  the  girl,  but  never  once  did  she  turn  her  head. 
At  the  corner  of  the  Embankment  she  paused. 

"Here  first,"  she  said. 

Silently  he  arranged  the  seat,  sat  down,  and  struck  the 
crazy  notes  of  his  little  instrument.  The  girl  folded  her 
hands  and  sang.  The  monkey,  with  outstretched  tray, 
collected  the  pennies.  Then  a  policeman  moved  them  on. 
It  was  always  like  that. 

They  passed  along  the  Embankment.  The  girl  walked 
close  to  the  stone  wall,  looking  down  to  the  river.  Drake, 
whose  breath  was  coming  in  little  gasps,  pushed  his  barrow 
along  close  to  the  curbstone,  to  avoid  the  heavy  mud. 
They  passed  the  side  streets  which  led  up  into  the  Strand, 
and  turned  into  Northumberland  Avenue.  Once  more 
they  paused  and  repeated  their  little  program.  There 
were  fewer  people  and  fewer  pennies  this  time.  The 
evening  was  raw,  and  every  one  was  hurrying.  When  the 
girl  had  finished  singing  there  were  very  few  for  Chicot 
to  visit  with  his  little  tray. 

"Let  us  go  back,"  Drake  said.  "It  is  a  bad  night. 
There  are  few  people  out  of  doors.  We  have  enough  for 
dinner.  I  did  well  with  the  matches  this  morning." 


34  PASSERS-BY 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said.  "I  am  go- 
ing on,  on  that  way."  She  pointed  across  Trafalgar 
Square,  westward.  "If  you  are  tired,  go  back,  you  and 
Chicot." 

She  walked  on,  as  though  heedless  whether  they  fol- 
lowed or  not.  Drake  set  his  teeth,  and  commenced  once 
more  his  weary  pilgrimage.  The  wheels  of  his  barrow 
were  stiff,  and  the  traffic  around  him  grew  thicker.  Still, 
somehow  or  other,  he  managed  to  keep  his  eyes  upon  the 
girl  ahead.  Once  or  twice,  when  the  crowd  was  thick, 
he  grew  anxious.  "  We  shall  lose  her,  Chicot,"  he  muttered. 
"  No,  there  she  is !  Courage,  little  one.  We  must  push  on." 

A  hansom  cab  missed  him  by  barely  a  few  inches.  A 
motor-car,  whizzing  by,  splashed  him  all  over  with  mud. 
Still  he  kept  her  in  sight  along  Pall  Mall,  up  Regent  Street, 
once  more  to  the  left,  always  westward.  She  paused  for 
a  few  moments  to  look  into  a  shop.  He  caught  up  with 
her  there  and  called  to  her  weakly. 

"Christine,"  he  said. 

She  turned  away,  and  approached  the  edge  of  the  pave- 
ment. 

"Christine,"  he  gasped,  "I  am  tired.  The  roads  are 
heavy,  and  I  have  not  eaten  much  to-day.  Let  us  rest  for 
a  little  time." 

"Rest!"  she  answered  bitterly,  "there  is  no  place  here 
to  rest." 


PASSERS-BY  35 

He  sat  upon  the  handle  of  his  barrow.  "Let  us  go 
home,"  he  said  more  slowly.  "No  one  will  stop  to  listen 
to  us  to-night.  If  we  sing  here  the  police  will  only  move 
us  on." 

"Go  home,  if  you  like,"  she  answered.  "I  am  going 
farther.  Somehow,  I  feel  that  here  in  London  we  are 
near  the  end  of  it." 

"The  end?"  he  gasped. 

"  The  search,"  she  answered.  "  You  know  what  I  mean. 
There  is  something  which  seems  to  draw  me  across  that 
bridge  up  here.  I  tell  you  that  it  is  not  I  who  comes.  It 
is  something  which  tells  me  that  here,  not  far  away,  I  shall 
find  him." 

She  paused.  For  the  first  time  a  shadow  of  something 
which  might  have  been  sympathy  crossed  her  face.  "As 
for  you,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  strong  enough  for  this. 
You  are  tired.  I  can  see  that  you  are  very  tired.  Listen. 
I  will  wait  here  and  hold  Chicot.  You  shall  go  over  there 
and  take  something  to  drink,  something  hot." 

He  hesitated.  Even  then  he  would  not  have  gone  but 
for  the  feeling  of  faintness  against  which  he  had  been 
struggling  for  the  last  half  hour.  "You  will  not  move 
from  here?"  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  I  think  I  will  go,"  he  said.  "It  is  foolish,  but 
there  is  a  pain." 


36  PASSERS-BY 

He  plunged  into  the  traffic  and  crossed  the  street  to  the 
bar  opposite.  They  looked  at  him  strangely  as  he  drank 
his  hot  spirits  and  water.  On  a  corner  of  the  counter  was 
a  little  basket  of  bread,  left  over  from  luncheon-time.  He 
took  a  piece  and  ate  it  ravenously.  He  remembered  sud- 
denly that  he  had  not  eaten  since  that  early  breakfast. 
Then  he  turned  once  more  into  the  street  and  crossed  it. 
His  heart  gave  a  sudden  jump.  The  piano  was  there. 
Chicot,  indeed,  had  collected  a  small  crowd,  for  he  had 
escaped  from  his  bag,  and  was  sitting  on  the  top  saluting 
the  passers-by  with  profuse  wavings  of  his  little  hat. 
The  piano  was  there,  and  Chicot,  but  the  girl  was 
gone! 

Drake  stood  upon  the  curbstone,  gazing  wildly  up  and 
down  the  great  thoroughfare.  He  peered  into  the  shops, 
came  back  again,  and  walked  backward  and  forward 
along  the  crowded  sidewalk.  Christine  was  not  there, 
and  his  heart  was  filled  with  a  sudden  terrible  apprehen- 
sion. People  stared  at  him,  this  queer  little  figure,  with 
tragedy  written  large  in  his  face,  who  wandered  hither 
and  thither,  peering  into  their  faces,  looking  everywhere, 
looking  for  something  which  he  could  not  find.  At  last 
he  came  back  to  the  piano 

"We  will  wait,  Chicot,"  he  muttered.  "We  will  wait 
here.  She  has  gone  away  to  buy  something,  perhaps. 


PASSERS-BY  37 

She  will  come  back.  We  must  wait  here,  Chicot,  or  she 
will  lose  us." 

The  rain  commenced  to  fall,  at  first  softly,  then  more 
steadily.  Chicot  crept  into  his  bag.  With  trembling 
fingers  Drake  drew  the  waterproof  covering  over  the  little 
piano.  Then  he  stood  up  beside  it,  facing  the  sidewalk, 
looking  up  and  down,  across  the  street,  up  and  down 
again.  Sometimes  they  moved  him  on.  He  went  a  few 
yards  and  returned. 

"She  will  come  back,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "She 
must  come  back.  We  will  wait,  Chicot  and  I." 


CHAPTER   VI 

EXACTLY  how  it  happened,  Christine  herself  could 
scarcely  have  told.  She  had  been  gazing  without 
any  special  interest  into  a  shop-window,  awaiting  Drake's 
return.  Suddenly  she  was  conscious  of  some  one  stand- 
ing by  her  side,  and  a  hand  was  laid  upon  her  wrist.  She 
looked  around,  startled.  It  was  the  man  who  had  rushed 
the  night  before  down  from  his  rooms  into  the  narrow 
passage,  the  man  whom  they  had  left  lying  upon  the  pave- 
ment with  his  face  turned  to  the  sky.  She  recognized  him 
at  once  with  a  little  gasp. 

"This  time,  young  lady,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  am  not 
asking  you  any  questions.  I  know  quite  well  who  you  are, 
and  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Are  you  alone?" 

"I  will  not  talk  to  you,"  she  answered,  snatching  her 
wrist  away.  "  I  do  not  know  you.  I  am  waiting  for  Am- 
brose. When  he  comes  you  will  be  sorry." 

The  young  man  laughed  softly.  It  was  not  at  all  an 
unpleasant  laugh,  nor  was  he  an  unpleasant  person  to 
look  upon.  "My  dear  young  lady,"  he  said,  "why  will 
you  persist  in  looking  upon  me  as  an  enemy?  I  assure 
you  that  I  have  no  wish  to  be  anything  of  the  sort.  It 


PASSERS-BY  39 

may  be  very  much  to  your  interest  to  talk  to  me  for  a  few 
minutes.  At  any  rate,  I  have  found  you,  and  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  go/ 

Something  in  his  face  suddenly  attracted  her.  She 
hesitated. 

"Come,"  he  said  persuasively,  "do  not  be  foolish. 
Times  are  bad  with  you.  Don't  think  me  impertinent, 
but  I  can  see  that.  It  is  not  fit  for  you,  this  life." 

"  It  is  the  life  I  choose,"  she  answered,  a  note  of  fierce- 
ness in  her  tone. 

"You  have,  perhaps,  an  object/'  he  said  quietly.  "But 
never  mind  that  now.  You  must  come  with  me." 

"Where  to?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  to  a  restaurant  close  by 
here,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  going  to  give  you  some  dinner. 
Afterward  we  will  talk." 

The  idea  appealed  to  her  amazingly.  A  restaurant, 
good  food,  wine,  flowers,  and  lights !  She  half  closed  her 
eyes.  When  she  opened  them  again  she  was  quite  deter- 
mined. "I  will  go  with  you,"  she  said.  "Let  us  hurry. 
We  must  be  gone  before  Ambrose  returns." 

He  needed  no  second  bidding.  In  a  moment  they  were 
across  the  street,  and  he  piloted  her  through  the  throngs 
of  people  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so.  Then  he  stopped 
before  a  great  restaurant.  The  commissionnaire  threw 
open  the  door  with  a  bow. 


40  PASSERS-BY 

"We  will  go  in  here,"  Hannaway  said,  "into  the  grill 
room.  It  is  too  early  to  find  many  people  there,  but  we  can 
talk." 

She  followed  him  into  the  room.  He  led  the  way,  pre- 
ceded by  a  bowing  maitre  d'hotel,  to  a  corner  table.  She 
sank  into  a  chair  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  There  was 
everything  here  that  she  had  hoped  for  —  clean  linen, 
sparkling  silver,  flowers  upon  the  table,  a  delicate  sense 
of  warmth,  and  from  the  larger  restaurant,  the  faint 
#>und  of  music.  He  took  the  carte  and  ordered  the 
dinner.  The  waiter  placed  by  his  side  a  gold-foiled 
bottle  and  a  pail  of  ice.  Over  their  oysters  he  looked  at 
her,  smiling. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "this  is  better  than  hitting  me  on  the 
head  because  I  ventured  to  show  myself  to  you  once 
more." 

For  the  first  time  she  smiled.  The  parting  of  her  lips 
was  transfiguring.  One  realized,  almost  breathlessly, 
that  this  girl  with  the  tired  eyes  and  sullen  face  was,  if  she 
chose  to  claim  her  heritage,  beautiful. 

"If  Ambrose  should  find  us,"  she  said,  "I  think  that  he 
would  do  more  than  strike  you." 

"I  will  take  my  chances,"  the  young  man  answered 
easily.  "I  do  not  think  that  he  will  find  us  here,  but  even 
if  he  does  he  shall  not  take  you  away  until  I  have  said 
something  to  you  which  has  been  in  my  mind  since  —  " 


PASSERS-BY  41 

Her  hand  flashed  out  across  the  table.  "Never  mind 
when,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "You  will  say  what  you  want 
to,  I  suppose,  and  I  must  listen.  But  remember  that  even 
here  there  are  waiters,  and  people  at  the  next  table.  There 
are  some  things  it  were  better  not  to  speak  of." 

He  remained  silent  for  several  moments.  The  girl 
sipped  her  wine  and  with  her  elbows  on  the  table  leaned 
her  head  on  her  hands  and  looked  across  at  him  thought- 
fully. He  was  certainly  good  to  look  at,  this  young  Eng- 
lishman. It  was  a  pity  that  he  knew  anything  of  those 
days  that  lay  behind.  It  was  a  pity,  she  thought,  that  she 
had  not  met  him  now  for  the  first  time,  that  this  ceaseless 
duel  between  them  must  intervene,  must  keep  her  always 
upon  her  guard. 

Their  table  was  admirably  chosen  for  a  tete-a-tete. 
There  were  few  people  in  the  room,  and  the  little  party  at 
the  nearest  table  were  too  thoroughly  engrossed  in  them- 
selves to  be  of  any  serious  account.  Gilbert  Hannaway, 
who  for  some  time  had  maintained  a  deliberate  silence, 
turned  in  his  chair  and  took  careful  stock  of  their 
surroundings. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  we  are  not  in  very  much  dan- 
ger from  eavesdroppers  here.  Tell  me  this.  Is  this  mis- 
erable existence  of  yours,  this  tramping  after  a  piano,  a 
necessity  of  your  life  ?  Or  is  it  merely  a  cloak  for  some- 
thing else?" 


42  PASSERS-BY 

"  It  is  a  necessity,"  she  answered. 

"You  are  really  as  poor  as  you  seem ?"  he  asked. 

"Poorer,"  she  answered.  "I  have  known  what  it  is, 
within  the  last  few  weeks,  to  depend  upon  the  pennies 
thrown  to  us  in  the  streets  for  the  food  we  ate." 

"I  do  not  understand  it,"  the  young  man  said.  "There 
should  be  one  man,  at  any  rate,  upon  whom  you  have  a 
sufficient  claim." 

Her  eyes  suddenly  glittered.  She  leaned  far  across  the 
table.  Her  lips  were  parted.  A  flush  of  excitement  was 
in  her  face.  "There  is,"  she  answered.  "Do  you  know 
where  I  can  find  him?" 

The  young  man  toyed  with  his  wine-glass.  "Perhaps," 
he  said.  "That  depends." 

"Upon  what?"  she  whispered,  almost  fiercely. 

"Upon  two  things,"  he  answered.  "The  first  is,  I 
must  know  exactly  what  will  be  your  attitude  toward  that 
person  when  you  have  found  him." 

"The  second?"  she  demanded. 

"I  think,"  he  said  quietly,  "that  you  know.  For  four 
years  I  have  been  looking  for  you.  That  is  why,  when  I 
looked  down  from  my  rooms  last  night  and  saw  you  sing- 
ing in  the  passage  underneath,  saw  you  and  the  hunch- 
back and  the  monkey,  that  I  rushed  down  like  a  madman, 
determined  that  this  time,  at  any  rate,  you  should  not 
escape  me." 


PASSERS-BY  43 

She  drew  away.  "You  were  foolish,"  she  said.  "You 
are  foolish  now." 

"I  do  not  deny  it,"  he  answered.  "I  have  been  a  little 
foolish  ever  since  I  used  to  see  you,  almost  daily,  singing 
in  the  streets.  You  were  never  very  gracious.  Sometimes 
when  you  saw  me  there  among  your  scanty  audience  you 
would  even  frown  and  look  annoyed.  You  scarcely  ever 
spoke  a  kind  word  to  me,  and  yet,  when  you  disappeared 
I  commenced  a  search  which  has  never  ended  until 
now." 

She  looked  at  him  a  little  curiously.  Her  face  was  no 
longer  sullen,  and  with  the  passing  of  the  frown  from  her 
dark,  silky  eyebrows  her  eyes  seemed  somehow  to  have 
increased  in  size.  They  watched  him  steadily,  soft,  bril- 
liant, inquisitive,  anything  but  tender.  Her  mouth  was 
no  longer  hard.  Her  lips  had  parted  in  a  faint  mocking 
smile. 

"And  now  that  you  have  found  me,"  she  asked,  "what 
do  you  want?" 

"To  help  you,  if  I  can,"  Hannaway  said.  "I  believe," 
he  continued,  "that  this  time,  at  any  rate,  you  are  really 
what  you  seem.  I  believe  that  your  poverty  is  not  a  dis- 
guise. You  really  trudge  these  cruel  streets  for  a  hard 
living.  You  were  not  born  for  it.  It  is  not  right  that  you 
should  live  such  a  life." 

"You  wish  to  help  me?"  she  asked. 


44  PASSERS-BY 

"I  do,"  he  answered  fervently. 

"Then  you  can  tell  me,"  she  said,  leaning  a  little  for- 
ward, "something  that  will  end  my  search  —  tell  me  the 
whereabouts  of  the  man  whom  we  seek." 

"I  could,"  he  answered,  "but  I  will  be  frank  with  you. 
I  have  no  information  to  give  away.  I  will  sell  it  at  a 
price." 

"Sell!"  she  repeated  scornfully.  "Look  at  me.  My 
hat  has  been  soaked  through  a  dozen  times,  and  it  cost  me 
five  shillings.  My  clothes  were  bought  ready-made.  My 
boots  —  well,  the  soles  are  thick,  but  they  are  what  your 
country  girls  wear  who  walk  to  market.  Look  at  me.  I 
have  no  gloves.  All  my  jewelry,  the  little  I  ever  had,  is 
in  the  pawnbrokers'  shops  of  Paris,  Milan,  Rome,  and 
those  other  places.  What  have  I  to  offer  you  for  your 
information?" 

"You  can  repay  me,"  he  answered,  "in  the  like  coin. 
You  are  in  search  of  —  " 

Again  her  hand  flashed  across  the  table.  She  seemed 
about  to  close  his  lips.  She  hung  on  his  wrist,  and  her 
terrified  eyes  flashed  into  his. 

"Be  quiet!  Oh,  be  quiet!"  she  said.  "You  must  not 
mention  him.  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of." 

He  smiled.    "This  is  England,"  he  said. 

"But  it  is  London,"  she  interrupted,  almost  fiercely. 
"London  is  not  England.  London  is  as  bad  as  any  place 


PASSERS-BY  45 

I  know  of.  There  are  many  who  say  too  much  here  who 
never  speak  again." 

Hannaway  drained  his  glass.  "My  dear  young  lady," 
he  said,  "caution,  up  to  a  certain  point,  I  approve  of  most 
thoroughly.  But  now  listen  to  me,  and  understand  this. 
I  will  give  you,  at  this  moment,  the  name  and  address  of 
the  man  whom  you  seek  if  you  will  tell  me  who  it  was  you 
helped  to  escape,  you  and  the  dwarf  and  the  little  black 
monkey,  when  you  —  " 

"Stop !"  she  cried,  with  pallid  lips.    "You  must  not!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "We  are  safer  here  than  in  the 
streets,"  he  said.  "You  know  when  I  mean.  I  saw  you 
going  down  the  hill ;  I  saw  you  pass  into  the  Rue  Pigalle. 
I  saw  that  strange  little  hunchback  running,  pushing  the 
little  piano  before  him,  and  I  saw  a  man  walking  by  his 
side.  You  were  there,  too.  I  saw  you  all  turn  into  the 
Boulevard.  I  saw  your  shadows.  I  even  heard  the  sound 
of  those  creaking  wheels.  You  turned  the  corner,  and  you 
vanished.  The  earth  might  have  swallowed  you  up.  No 
one  knew  of  you.  Every  corner  of  Paris  was  searched  in 
vain.  What  became  of  you  ?  No,  I  will  not  ask  you  that ! 
I  promised  to  ask  one  question,  and  one  question  only. 
Who  was  it  that  you  helped  to  escape  that  night?" 

The  girl's  face  seemed  suddenly  changed.  She  was 
paler.  Her  features  had  lost  all  their  sullen  impassivity. 
She  was  like  a  person  looking  out  upon  dreaded  things. 


46  PASSERS-BY 

She  crumbled  up  her  bread  with  trembling  fingers.  The 
hand  which  raised  her  wine-glass  to  her  lips  shook. 
Waiters  were  at  their  table,  but  she  made  no  attempt  at 
lighter  conversation.  She  sat  still,  looking  around  the 
room,  looking  everywhere  but  into  the  fixed,  steadfast 
face  of  the  man  who  sat  opposite  to  her.  Presently  they 
were  alone  again. 

She  leaned  a  little  over  the  table.  "There  was  no  one 
there,"  she  said.  "We  were  alone.  We  hurried  away 
because  we  were  afraid.  It  was  a  passer-by  that  you  saw." 

He  smiled.  "It  is  not  true,"  he  answered.  "There  are 
some  things  about  which  it  is  not  worth  while  to  lie,  and 
this  is  one  of  them.  Will  you  tell  me  who  it  was?  I  am 
not  a  policeman  or  a  detective.  No  harm  will  come  to 
anybody  through  me." 

"Not  if  a  knife  were  at  my  throat !"  she  answered,  with 
sudden  passion.  "Why  should  I?  What  are  you  to  me? 
I  owe  you  what  ?  A  dinner,  perhaps.  Bah !  You  asked 
me  here,  not  because  I  was  hungry,  not  because  you  really 
wanted  to  see  me  again,  but  just  to  gratify  your  curiosity. 
¥bu  say  that  you  have  searched  for  me  for  four  years. 
You  want  me  to  believe  that  you  have  thought  of  me, 
that  it  was  for  my  sake.  You  looked  everywhere  for  a 
singing  girl  and  a  hunchback  and  a  monkey!  Bah!  I 
do  not  believe  you.  I  am  not  even  sure  that  you  are  not 
a  policeman." 


PASSERS-BY  47 

"That  is  not  kind  of  you,"  he  answered  quietly.  "It 
may  seem  strange  to  you,  perhaps,  that  I  should  be  so 
curious.  Since  you  misunderstand  me,  I  will  ask  you 
that  question  no  more.  Only,  unless  you  will  tell  me 
exactly  what  you  want  of  this  person  of  whom  you  are  in 
search  —  " 

"I  am  in  search  of  no  one,"  she  interrupted,  with  a  little 
nervous  gesture.  "It  is  a  mistake.  We  are  here  because 
there  is  money  in  London,  always  money.  And  one  must 
live.  We  have  been  in  so  many  other  places,  and  every 
one  has  told  us  that  it  is  here  that  one  finds  that  people 
give  the  easiest." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  filled  her  glass.  "You 
will  not  trust  me,"  he  said.  "Very  well,  I  will  not  spoil 
your  dinner  any  more.  I  will  ask  no  more  questions. 
Presently  we  shall  part.  Only,  before  you  go,  there  is  one 
privilege  at  least  which  you  must  allow  me." 

"I  will  not  take  your  money,"  she  said  hastily.  "I  will 
not  take  anything  at  all  from  you." 

"Then  you  are  a  very  foolish  person,"  he  answered. 
"I  do  not  know  much  about  you,  but  I  do  know  that  it  is 
a  shameful  thing  that  you  should  be  singing  in  the  streets 
day  after  day,  with  only  that  poor  little  hunchback  for  a 
companion.  I  do  not  ask  for  any  return  from  you  of  any 
sort.  I  simply  ask  to  be  allowed  to  help  you  for  the  sake 
of  a  sentiment." 


48  PASSERS-BY 

"  It  is  finished,"  she  said  coldly.  "  I  can  starve  very  well, 
but  I  would  not  take  money  from  you." 

He  sighed.  "You  are  worse  than  foolish,"  he  declared. 
"  You  take  pennies  from  the  passers-by  in  the  street,  and 
yet  you  refuse  the  help  of  one  who  is  anxious  only  to  be 
your  friend." 

"  We  take  the  pennies  of  people  whom  we  do  not  know," 
she  answered  coldly.  "We  sing  and  play  to  them,  or  we 
would  ask  for  nothing.  The  greatest  artist  who  sings  in 
opera  does  that.  For  you  it  is  different.  We  live  our  own  . 
lives.  After  all,  we  ourselves  are  the  best  judges  of  what 
seems  right  to  us." 

Hannaway  shrugged  his  shoulders.  It  was  only  too 
obvious  that  the  girl  was  in  earnest.  "It  must  be  as  you 
will,"  he  said  quietly.  "The  chicken  at  last!  You  take 
salad,  of  course  ?  For  the  rest  of  the  evening  we  speak  of 
cookery,  or  shall  it  be  the  weather  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  not  unkindly.  "You  may  talk  of 
what  you  like,"  she  answered,  "except  — 

He  smiled  as  he  filled  her  glass.  "That,"  he  answered, 
"is  finished." 


CHAPTER  VII 

MR.  GILBERT  HANNAWAY  was  on  the  point  of 
cutting  in  for  a  rubber  of  bridge  at  his  favorite 
club  when   a  paragraph   in  the  evening  paper  through 
which  he  had  been  glancing  attracted  his  attention.     He 
read  it  through  carefully. 

We  regret  to  state  that,  owing  to  sudden  indisposition, 
the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  has  been  ordered  by  his  medical 
adviser  to  proceed  at  once  to  the  south  of  France.  The 
announcement  will  be  received  with  very  great  regret 
throughout  all  classes  of  the  community,  especially  as  just 
at  the  present  time  his  lordship's  work  in  the  cabinet  is  of 
great  importance.  We  understand  that  his  duties  will  be 
temporarily  filled  by  the  Right  Honorable  Meredith  Jones. 

Hannaway  excused  himself  from  the  projected  game. 
He  remained  a  few  minutes  longer,  chatting  to  his  ac- 
quaintances, and  then  left  the  club.  In  less  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  a  hansom  deposited  him  at  the  door  of 
Number  11  Cavendish  Square. 

7"he  butler  was  at  first  obdurate.  His  lordship  would 
see  no  one.  He  was  leaving  for  abroad  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  his  instructions  were  absolute.  Hannaway,  how- 
ever, was  possessed  of  an  impressive  manner,  and  he 


50  PASSERS-BY 

succeeded  so  far  as  to  be  shown  into  a  small  room  to 
await  the  coming  of  the  marquis's  secretary.  The  latter, 
who  was  in  a  very  bad  temper,  however,  was  not  in  the 
least  inclined  to  afford  opportunities  for  any  more  strangers 
to  interview  his  master. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said,  "and 
my  chief  has  been  ordered  to  take  absolute  and  com- 
plete rest.  He  cannot  give  personal  attention  to  any 
matter  of  business,  and  social  calls  just  now  are  out  of  the 
question.  I  am  sorry,  therefore,  that  I  cannot  help  you." 

"You  can  help  me  so  far  as  this,"  Hannaway  answered, 
"and  incidentally  you  can  also  help  the  marquis,  of  whose 
indisposition  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear.  Tell  him  that  the 
person  who  telephoned  him  last  night  from  the  Altona 
Hotel  is  anxious  to  have  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with 
him." 

The  secretary's  manner  changed.  With  obvious  reluc- 
tance, he  turned  to  leave  the  room.  "  I  will  give  him  your 
message,"  he  said  curtly.  "You  may  wait  here." 

The  marquis  had  dined  tete-a-tete  with  his  wife.  She 
was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  and  very  much  in  demand  in 
the  social  world,  of  which  she  was  one  of  the  principal 
adornments.  To-night,  however,  she  had  canceled  all  her 
engagements.  In  face  of  the  statement  which  was  appear- 
ing in  all  the  evening  papers  her  presence  at  any  social 


PASSERS-BY  51 

function  was  scarcely  to  be  expected.  Apart  from  this, 
she  had  an  immense  curiosity  as  to  the  cause  of  her  hus- 
band's sudden  departure  from  England.  They  had  fin- 
ished dinner,  and  were  taking  their  coffee  in  the  smaller 
library,  where  the  marquis  was  accustomed  to  receive 
private  visitors.  The  marchioness,  who  had  had  a  fatigu- 
ing afternoon,  was  curled  up  on  the  sofa,  watching  her 
husband  through  half-closed  eyes. 

"You  certainly,  my  dear  Francis,"  she  remarked,  "do 
look  a  little  pale  and  drawn.  At  the  same  time,  I  should 
scarcely  have  thought  that  there  was  anything  in  your 
health  which  made  this  sudden  departure  necessary." 

Her  husband  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  Mar- 
garet," he  said,  "appearances  are  sometimes  deceptive. 
I  have  been  feeling  absolutely  run  down  for  some  time. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  in  a  very  delicate  position  po- 
litically just  now.  I  am  absolutely  opposed  to  our  chief 
on  several  important  matters.  I  have  no  following,  and  I 
am  not  disposed  to  give  in  altogether." 

"So  it  is  a  political  trouble,  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  understand  that,"  he  answered, 
taking  a  cigarette  from  a  cedar-wood  box  upon  the  table, 
and  carefully  lighting  it.  "At  the  same  time,  if  matters 
in  the  cabinet  were  different  I  might  perhaps  have  made 
a  more  energetic  struggle  against  my  indisposition. 
Frankly,  I  think  that  I  shall  do  myself  no  harm  whatever 


52  PASSERS-BY 

if  I  am  away  during  the  next  few  months.  It  will  obviate 
my  acquiescence  in  a  certain  policy  which  I  feel  sure, 
sooner  or  later,  will  turn  out  to  be  disastrous." 

The  marchioness  was  distinctly  interested.  "Yet,"  she 
said,  "you  leave  the  conduct  of  affairs  in  the  hands  of  a 
man  whose  policy  is,  I  believe,  very  different  from  yours. 
Is  n't  Meredith  Jones  one  of  those  who  go  through  life 
shivering  through  fear  of  the  Germans?" 

"Meredith  Jones,  at  any  rate,"  he  answered,  "repre- 
sents the  popular  feeling  in  the  cabinet.  I  am  almost  alone 
in  my  views,  except,  as  you  perhaps  know,  for  some  very 
powerful  influence  outside  the  cabinet.  Single-handed,  I 
could  do  nothing.  If  I  remained,  I  should  have  to  carry 
out  another  man's  views.  No!  I  am  well  content  to  be 
away  for  a  short  time.  Apart  from  which,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  sigh,  "I  am  really  feeling  shockingly  seedy." 

"You  won't  expect  me  out  until  after  Christmas, 
I  suppose?"  she  asked. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "You  can  come  just 
when  it  is  convenient.  In  fact,  although  I  have  wired  to 
have  the  villa  got  ready,  I  shall  probably  wander  about 
for  some  time  and  try  to  find  a  quiet  spot  along  the  Italian 
Riviera.  I  shall  have  plenty  to  occupy  my  thoughts. 
There  are  some  papers  I  have  been  wanting  to  write  for 
the  reviews." 

The  marchioness  looked  for  a  moment  or  two  thought- 


PASSERS-BY  53 

fully  into  the  fire.  She  was  not  in  the  least  satisfied  with 
her  husband's  explanation. 

"My  dear  Francis,"  she  said  presently,  "but  for  the 
fact  that  I  interviewed  Sir  Frederick  myself,  and  know 
that  he  dare  not  tell  me  a  downright  lie,  I  should  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  you  are  keeping  something  back 
from  me  with  regard  to  your  health.  Frankly,  I  do  not 
believe  this  explanation  of  yours.  You  are  not  at  all  the 
sort  of  man  to  run  away  from  trouble." 

The  marquis  stood  still  for  several  moments.  His  thin, 
drawn  face  was  in  a  sense  expressionless,  yet  his  wife  was 
perfectly  well  aware  that  there  was  some  change  there. 
Something  had  happened  which  reminded  her  of  a  ter- 
rible week  of  restlessness  soon  after  their  marriage. 

"  There  is  some  trouble,"  he  said,  "  from  which  flight 
alone  is  possible." 

The  marchioness  raised  herself  a  little  on  the  sofa. 
"  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  Francis,"  she 
remarked.  "I  hope  that  you  have  not  been  foolish 
enough  to  allow  yourself  to 'be  frightened  by  any  of  these 
bands  of  blackmailers.  They  tell  me  that  half  the  public 
men  in  London,  at  some  time  or  another,  have  to  face 
trouble  of  this  sort." 

"Blackmailers!"  he  repeated  softly.  "No,  it  is  not 
exactly  that." 

"There  is  something?"  she  persisted. 


54  PASSERS-BY 

"There  is  something,"  he  admitted,  unconsciously 
lowering  his  voice.  "There  is  something,  I  must  admit 
that." 

"Why  not  tell  me  about  it?"  she  asked.  "I  think  that 
on  the  whole  you  and  I  have  been  much  more  than  fairly 
good  husband  and  wife  to  each  other.  I  do  not  wish  to 
say  anything  which  might  sound  bourgeois,  but  if  there  is 
any  real  trouble  or  danger  to  be  faced  I  do  not  need  to 
hear  the  other  side.  I  believe  hi  you,  and  I  would  help 
you  if  it  were  possible." 

The  marquis  threw  away  his  cigarette.  He  stooped 
down  and  raised  his  wife's  fingers  to  his  lips.  Then,  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  he  stooped  lower  still  and  kissed 
her  lips. 

"Dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "I  thank  you  very  much. 
If  it  were  possible  for  me  to  give  it  to  any  one  in  the  world, 
you  should  have  my  whole  confidence.  Unfortunately,  it 
is  not  possible.  If  you  were  my  guardian  angel,  the 
materialized  conscience  of  my  life,  I  should  still  be  dumb." 

"There  were  times,"  she  remarked  thoughtfully,  "when 
you  were  a  young  man,  before  there  was  any  thought  of 
your  coming  into  the  title,  when  you  were  unheard  of. 
There  were  years  of  your  life  during  which  you  seem  to 
have  had  no  friends,  when  no  one  seemed  to  know  any- 
thing about  you,  where  you  were,  or  what  you  were  doing. 
You  came  back  when  your  cousin  died,  a  stranger  to 


PASSERS-BY  55 

nearly  everybody.  I  have  been  curious  sometimes, 
Francis,  about  those  years." 

His  lips  parted  slowly  into  a  smile  which  seemed  to 
make  a  stranger  of  him  to  the  woman  who  was  watching 
his  face.  Certainly  it  was  some  other  man  who,  with 
fixed  eyes,  looked  back  into  the  shadows  of  another's 
past. 

"You  must  remember,"  he  said,  "that  in  those  days  I 
was  nobody.  I  was  a  well-born,  penniless  young  man, 
with  no  career,  practically  no  expectations.  I  was  treated 
very  badly  by  people  from  whom  I  had  some  right  to 
expect  countenance.  I  was  a  little  wild,  perhaps,  but  I 
was  no  worse  than  dozens  of  others.  I  mention  this  be- 
cause I  want  you  to  understand  that  in  those  days  I  felt 
no  shadow  of  obligation  toward  either  my  country  or  my 
family.  That  is  all  I  can  tell  you,  Margaret." 

Then  the  marchioness  made  what  was  for  her  a  most 
astounding  suggestion,  a  suggestion  which  even  a  few 
days  afterward  she  reflected  upon  with  amazement.  "I 
wonder,"  she  said,  "whether  you  would  care  for  me  to  go 
with  you  abroad?  I  could  manage  it,  of  course.  The 
servants  could  follow  us  in  a  few  days  with  the 
luggage." 

He  looked  at  her.  He  was  astonished,  and  showed  it 
"  My  dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "  it  is  most  unnecessary. 
For  what  you  have  said  I  am  very  grateful,  but  it  is  better 


56  PASSERS-BY 

for  me  to  go  alone  just  now.    Now  who  the  mischief  can 

that  be?" 

There  was  a  low  tapping  at  the  door.  His  secretary 
entered,  with  a  brief  apology. 

"I  am  most  sorry,  sir,"  he  said,  "to  interrupt  you. 
There  is  a  man  here  of  whom  I  cannot  get  rid.  His  name 
is  Gilbert  Hannaway." 

The  marquis  shook  his  head.  "I  never  heard  of  him," 
he  said.  "Are  you  sure  that  he  is  not  from  a  news- 
paper?" 

"I  am  quite  sure,"  the  secretary  answered.  "He  is  very 
urgent  in  his  desire  to  see  you,  and  he  will  give  me  no 
further  explanation  of  his  coming  than  this.  He  says  that 
he  is  the  man  who  rang  you  up  last  night  from  the  Altona 
Hotel." 

The  marquis  set  down  his  empty  coffee-cup.  It  was 
impossible  for  either  of  the  other  two  persons  in  the  room 
to  avoid  noticing  that  his  hand  was  trembling.  Again 
there  was  something  in  his  eyes  which,  to  those  two  who 
knew  him  so  well,  seemed  to  suggest  another  man  living 
in  another  world. 

"I  will  see  this  gentleman,"  the  marquis  said.  "You 
may  show  him  in  here,"  he  added,  with  a  little  glance 
toward  his  wife. 

She  rose  at  once  and  shook  out  her  gown.  "I  will  go 
to  my  room,"  she  said,  "and  read  for  a  little  time.  Per- 


PASSERS-BY  57 

haps  if  you  are  not  detained  too  long  you  will  come  in 
and  see  me." 

The  secretary  held  open  the  door  with  a  low  bow.  Her 
husband,  as  she  passed,  once  more  raised  her  fingers  to 
his  lips. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  shall  certainly  come." 


CHAPTER  Vin 

THE  marquis  glanced  from  the  card  which  he  held 
toward  the  man  whom  his  secretary  had  just 
ushered  in. 

"This  is  Mr.  Hannaway,  sir,"  the  latter  remarked. 

The  marquis  inclined  his  head  very  slightly.  "I  do  not 
understand  the  purpose  of  your  visit,  sir,"  he  said,  "and 
I  am  exceedingly  occupied  just  now.  If  you  will  kindly 
explain  in  a  few  words  what  I  can  do  for  you,  I  shall  be 
glad." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  bowed,  and  glanced  toward  the 
secretary. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  stay,  sir?"   the  latter  asked. 

The  marquis  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Then  he  shook 
his  head.  "No,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  type  those 
letters  I  gave  you  before  dinner.  Bring  them  to  me  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  I  will  sign  them." 

The  secretary  bowed  and  withdrew,  closing  the  door 
carefully  behind  him.  The  marquis,  who  was  still  re- 
garding his  visitor  with  a  slight  frown,  motioned  him  to 
take  a  seat. 

"Sit  down,  if  you  will,  sir,"  he  said.    "I  can  spare  you 


PASSERS-BY  59 

only  a  very  few  minutes.  First  of  all,  let  me  ask  you  what 
is  the  meaning  of  that  extraordinary  message  which  I 
understand  came  from  you  last  night?" 

Hannaway  accepted  a  chair,  and  laid  his  hat  and  stick 
upon  the  table.  He  drew  up  one  knee  and  clasped  his 
hands  around  it.  "A  hunchback,  a  singing  girl,  and  a 
monkey ! "  he  murmured.  "  You  see,  I  had  been  search- 
ing for  them,  and  they  appeared  unexpectedly.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  you,  too,  might  be  interested  to  know 
that  they  were  in  London." 

"But  why?"  the  marquis  asked.  "What  has  such  a 
company  as  this  to  do  with  me?" 

Hannaway  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Your  lordship," 
he  said,  "are  we  to  talk  as  men  who  feel  for  the  point  of 
the  other's  rapier  in  the  dark  ?  Or  are  we  to  lay  our  cards 
upon  the  table?  We  may,  perhaps,  each  be  able  to  help 
the  other." 

The  marquis  glanced  toward  the  door.  "Mr.  Hanna- 
way," he  said,  "you  comport  yourself  like  a  sane  man, 
but  I  frankly  admit  that  your  words  seem  to  me  to  qualify 
you  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  Frankly,  I  have  no  idea  what 
you  mean." 

Hannaway  nodded  thoughtfully.  "  Ah !"  he  said,  "you 
prefer  that  way.  Well,  it  is  your  choice  of  weapons,  for 
it  is  I  who  have  sounded  the  tocsin.  I  understand  that 
your  lordship  is  leaving  England  to-morrow." 


60  PASSERS-BY 

"If  I  am,"  the  marquis  answered,  "I  do  not  conceive  it 
to  be  any  concern  of  yours." 

"One  cannot  tell,"  Hannaway  answered.  "Sometimes 
the  little  webs  of  fate  which  connect  our  lives  are  almost 
invisible.  There  may  be  something  which  brings  us  into 
closer  touch  than  you  are  willing  to  admit.  Five  years  ago, 
for  instance,  my  lord,  things  were  different  with  both 
of  us." 

The  marquis  looked  at  his  visitor  long  and  steadily. 
"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  Five  years  ago  I  was  a  penniless  man. 
I  was  leading  an  adventurous  life,  and  I  was  to  be  found 
in  strange  places.  It  is  possible  that  I  may  have  seen 
you  in  some  of  them.  It  is  possible  that  I  have  met 
you  under  circumstances  which  seem  to  you  scarcely  in 
keeping  with  my  present  position.  What  of  it  ?  What 
concern  is  it  of  yours?  Are  you  here  to  ask  for  black- 
mail?" 

"You  do  me  an  injustice,"  Hannaway  answered,  with- 
out any  sign  of  anger.  "I,  too,  only  five  years  ago,  was  a 
wanderer,  something  of  an  adventurer,  perhaps.  It  was 
about  that  time  that  I  began  to  find  life  more  than  ordi- 
narily interesting.  I  was  in  Paris  five  years  ago." 

The  marquis  bowed.  "It  is  possible,"  he  said  indiffer- 
ently, "that  I  may  even  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  there.  If  so,  I  do  not  remember  it  You  must  permit 
me  to  remind  you,  Mr.  Hannaway,  that  you  have  not  as 


PASSERS-BY  61 

yet  given  me  any  excuse,  call  it  reason  if  you  will,  for 
your  visit." 

"There  was  a  girl,"  Hannaway  murmured,  "a  singing 
girl,  a  hunchback,  and  a  monkey.  To-night  I  had  dinner 
with  the  singing  girl.  We  talked  of  many  things." 

The  marquis  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  turned  his  back 
a  little  upon  his  visitor,  and  moved  toward  a  chair.  "You 
have  read  in  the  papers,  perhaps,"  he-said,  a  little  hoarsely, 
"  that  I  am  ill.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  about.  You  say  that  you 
dined  with  a  singing  girl,  and  you  tell  me  that  as  though  it 
were  likely  to  interest  me.  What  do  you  mean?" 

"Your  lordship,"  Hannaway  said,  "I  dined  with  the 
girl  whose  life  is  a  search.  You  know  whom  she  seeks. 
You  know  why  she  seeks  him.  You  know  more  than  I  do 
of  these  matters,  but  I  know  enough  to  make  me  sure  that 
you  are  leaving  England  to-morrow  to  avoid  an  unpleasant 
encounter." 

"Mr.  Hannaway —  "  the  marquis  began. 

"We  are  alone,"  Hannaway  said.  "There  is  no  need 
to  waste  our  words.  There  is  a  man  in  France  sighing 
out  his  life  behind  the  walls  of  a  prison.  This  girl  seeks, 
perhaps,  for  some  one  to  take  his  place." 

"Really,"  the  marquis  declared,  "you  are  becoming 
quite  interesting." 

"I  am  thankful  for  so  much  of  your  lordship's  consid- 
eration," Hannaway  answered. 


62  PASSERS-BY 

"She  is  looking,  do  I  understand,  for  a  substitute?" 
the  marquis  asked. 

"She  is  looking  for  a  criminal,"  Hannaway  answered. 
"  She  is  looking  for  the  man  who  should  be  in  the  place  of 
a  certain  Vicomte  de  Neuilly." 

"  You  have  come  here  to  tell  me  these  things,  Mr.  Hanna- 
way," the  marquis  said.  "Why?" 

"Because,"  Hannaway  answered,  "I  expect  for  my  in- 
formation a  quid  pro  quo." 

"Naturally,"  the  marquis  answered.  "In  the  shape 
of  a  check,  may  I  ask?" 

"I  am  no  blackmailer,"  Hannaway  said  sternly,  "but 
I  was  in  the  house  at  the  corner  of  the  Place  Noire  on  the 
night  when  twenty  gendarmes  were  foiled  by  one  man. 
I  set  myself  to  find  out  who  that  man  was.  I  have  even 
visited  the  prison.  I  know  that  the  man  who  lies  there 
is  not  the  man  they  think." 

"Indeed?"  the  marquis  answered. 

"The  police  themselves  know  it,"  Hannaway  continued, 
"but  they  are  vain,  and  they  will  not  admit  that  they 
failed  to  secure  the  man  with  whose  name  all  France  was 
ringing  during  those  few  months.  Only  a  few  people 
know  that  the  man  who  lies  in  the  jail  at  Enselle  is  not 
the  terrible  Jean.  I  am  one  of  the  few  who  know  how 
he  made  his  escape  that  night.  I  was  lying  with  a  bullet 
in  my  thigh,  or  I  should  have  followed  even  then.  Some 


PASSERS-BY  63 

of  you  others  must  have  known.  Tell  me  who  that  man 
was,  Lord  Ellingham.  Tell  me  where  I  can  lay  my  hands 
upon  him.  You  owe  me  that  much  for  the  warning  I  have 
given  you  to-night." 

The  marquis  had  settled  down  in  his  easy  chair.  He 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  looked  across  at  his  companion 
with  a  curious  smile.  "My  dear  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said, 
"I  am  delighted  that  I  decided  to  see  you.  No  one  has 
amused  me  so  much  for  a  very  long  time.  Pray  go  on. 
Tell  me  more  about  this  Jean  the  Terrible,  I  think  you 
called  him.  Who  was  he,  and  why  was  he  terrible  ?  And 
above  all,  why  do  you  come  to  me  for  information  about 
him?" 

"Because  you  knew  him,"  Hannaway  answered.  "Be- 
cause you  were  one  of  that  band  of  ruffians.  There,  you 
see,  I  am  not  over-jealous  of  my  secret.  I  have  no  grudge 
against  you.  I  understand  that  things  have  changed 
with  you,  so  that  you  would  prefer  to  look  upon  the  past 
as  though  it  had  not  been.  But  my  silence  is  worth  some- 
thing. The  man  may  be  dead,  or  he  may  be  alive.  Any- 
how, his  whereabouts  interest  me.  Tell  me,  even,  what 
his  haunts  were,  what  he  was  like  to  look  at,  anything  that 
can  help  me  in  my  search." 

The  marquis  shook  his  head.  "Mr.  Hannaway,"  he 
said,  "you  have  amused  me  exceedingly,  and  I  am  very 
much  obliged  for  your  call,  and  also  for  the  warning  con- 


64  PASSERS-BY 

cerning  the  young  lady  and  the  dwarf  and  the  monkey. 
I  fancy  that  you  have  been  taking  an  overdose  of  Heine. 
Let  me  recommend  you  to  go  back  to  that  young  lady, 
and  get  rid  of  your  illusions.  She  will  probably  be  able  to 
help  you  to  do  so." 

Hannaway  nodded,  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand  re- 
luctantly for  his  hat  and  stick.  "Ah,  well,"  he  said,  "I 
am  not  disappointed.  The  old  fear  still  remains,  I  sup- 
pose. The  old  bonds  are  still  tightly  drawn.  There  are 
ways,  though,  without  your  lordship's  help." 

The  marquis  touched  the  bell.  "I  have  enjoyed  your 
call  immensely,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said.  "Pray  come 
again  some  day,  when  I  have  returned  from  abroad." 

"I  shall  certainly  do  myself  the  honor,"  Hannaway 
answered,  as  he  followed  the  footman  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  girl  paused  at  the  threshold  of  the  sitting-room, 
and  opening  the  door  softly,  looked  in.  Drake 
was  lying  huddled  up  on  the  sofa,  his  face  buried  in  his 
arms.  Chicot  sat  a  few  feet  away,  regarding  him  dole- 
fully. At  the  sound  of  her  coming,  both  turned  toward 
the  door.  Drake  sprang  to  his  feet.  A  little  cry  broke 
from  his  lips. 

"  Christine ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  You  are  back  again ! 
What  has  happened?  Why  did  you  leave  me?" 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  steadily.  Certainly  he 
was  a  strange-looking  figure.  His  hair  was  tangled  and 
disarranged.  There  were  patches  of  red  upon  his  face. 
His  clothes  were  splashed  with  mud.  She  held  out  her 
hands  with  a  little  gesture,  almost  of  aversion.  Then  she 
slowly  began  to  remove  the  pins  from  her  hat. 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  drinking." 

"God  knows  I  needed  to  drink!"  he  cried.  "I  was 
away  three,  perhaps  five,  minutes.  When  I  came  back 
you  were  gone.  I  waited,  we  waited,  Chicot  and  I.  When 
they  made  us  move  on,  we  came  back  again.  We  walked 
on  the  pavement,  we  stood  in  the  street,  the  hours  went, 


66  PASSERS-BY 

and  you  did  not  come.  Yes,  it  is  true,  Christine.  Then  I 
drank.  What  was  I  to  do?  I  could  not  eat,  and  I  was 
faint,  faint  with  fear.  But  you  have  come  back,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  break  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course  I  have  come  back,"  she  interposed  wearily. 
"What  was  there  else  to  do?" 

"  You  want  something  to  eat ! "   he  exclaimed  eagerly. 

"Not  a  thing,"  she  answered.  "I  have  had  dinner  at 
a  restaurant.  I  have  dined,  actually  dined,  Ambrose. 
Think  of  it !  I  have  seen  clean  linen,  flowers,  and  silver. 
I  have  eaten  warm,  well-cooked  food.  I  have  even  tasted 
champagne." 

The  joy  died  out  of  his  face.  Once  more  he  was  haggard. 
"With  whom?"  he  demanded.  "With  whom  have  you 
been?" 

"  With  no  one  of  my  own  choice,"  she  answered.  "  I  met 
him  face  to  face,  and  you  were  not  there.  I  was  obliged 
to  listen  to  him.  It  was  the  Englishman.  You  remember  ? 
The  one  from  whom  we  escaped  only  last  night." 

"I  know,"  the  dwarf  said.  "Hannaway,  his  name  was. 
God  knows  where  he  came  from  I  He  is  well  again,  then. 
He  was  not  badly  hurt." 

"No,"  she  answered,  "he  is  quite  recovered." 

"You  went  to  dinner  with  him?"  he  exclaimed,  his 
voice  trembling.  "Why  did  you  do  that?  Where  did  you 
go?  Why  did  you  not  keep  him  talking  until  I  came?" 


PASSERS-BY  67 

"  It  was  no  use,"  she  answered.  "  We  could  not  have 
escaped  from  him.  It  was  best  to  let  him  talk." 

"  You  told  him  anything  ?  "  Drake  asked. 

"  Nothing !  "  she  answered. 

"  How  much  does  he  know  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  thoughtfully.  "  He  is  one  of  those 
silent  persons,"  she  said,  "  who  say  little,  who  ask  ques- 
tions, and  whose  face  never  changes.  How  much  he 
knows  I  could  not  tell." 

"  Did  he  come  home  with  you  ?  "  Drake  demanded. 
"  Does  he  know  where  we  live  ?  " 

"  He  knows  nothing,"  she  answered. 

"Tell  me,"  Drake  asked,  "what  if  we  fail  also  in 
London?" 

"  We  cannot  fail,"  she  answered.  "  We  must  find 
him.  He  is  here  somewhere.  I  know  it.  We  are  in 
the  same  city.  In  time  we  must  come  face  to  face. 
Then  he  shall  know  what  it  is  to  hear  words  of  truth. 
He  shall  hear  what  a  woman,  even  though  she  be  only 
a  girl,  thinks  of  a  traitor." 

"It  is  a  great  city,  this,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "  We  may 
search  day  by  day,  month  by  month,  even  year  by  year, 
and  the  one  person  for  whom  we  look  may  escape  us." 

"  We  must  take  our  chance,"  the  girl  answered  dog- 
gedly. "  He  must  be  found.  In  time  we  shall  find  him. 
I  am  sure  of  it." 


68  PASSERS-BY 

"And  meantime  we  starve,"  Drake  muttered,  "you 
and  Chicot  and  I.  The  pennies  come  hardly  all  the  time, 
and  the  piano  is  wearing  badly.  The  man  told  me  to-day 
that  I  should  have  to  pay  for  two  fresh  notes.  It  is  the 
damp  and  the  rain  that  do  it.  What  a  country  it  is, 
Christine!" 

She  saw  the  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  she  answered  him 
almost  roughly.  "Oh,  I  know!"  she  said.  "You  are 
longing  for  the  sunshine,  for  the  smell  of  flowers,  the  warm 
south  winds.  Don't  you  think  that  I,  too,  miss  them  ?  It 
is  a  hideous  country,  this,  but  we  have  not  ourselves  to 
think  of.  Remember  the  man  whose  life  is  worse  even 
than  ours,  who  waits,  who  has  nothing  else  to  do  but  wait 
and  hope." 

"It  shall  be  as  you  say,"  Drake  answered.  "We  will 
stay,  if  you  will  have  it  so." 

"Stay  we  must,"  the  girl  answered  passionately.  "It  is 
not  of  my  choice,  it  is  not  a  matter  of  will.  We  are  here. 
WTe  must  remain  here." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  The  child  who  carried  up 
Christine's  breakfast  entered.  She  held  in  her  hand  a 
twisted  scrap  of  paper. 

"A  gent  left  this  'ere  for  you,"  she  explained. 

Christine  unfolded  the  note  with  curious  fingers.  "For 
me?"  she  repeated.  "A  gentleman  left  it  for  me?" 

Drake  came  softly  nearer,  with  darkening  face.     The 


PASSERS-BY  69 

child,  who  saw  prospects  of  trouble,  lingered.  Christine 
read  the  few  lines,  scrawled  across  a  half-sheet  of  paper, 
and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"Look,  Ambrose!"  she  cried.  "See!  It  is  a  message 
from  the  skies,  this.  Read ! " 

"I  cannot  read,"  he  muttered.    "My  eyes  are  dim." 

She  read  it  to  him : 

Be  at  Victoria  Station  when  the  eleven  o'clock  train  leaves 
for  the  Continent  to-morrow.  Watch  the  passengers. 

There  was  no  signature,  nothing  on  the  paper  by  which 
they  could  tell  from  whom  it  had  come.  Christine's  eyes 
were  on  fire  with  excitement. 

"To-morrow!"  she  cried.  "The  eleven  o'clock  train 
at  Victoria!" 

"Who  sent  you  that  note?"  Drake  demanded. 

She  laughed.  Her  fingers  went  to  her  lips,  and  she 
threw  an  imaginary  kiss.  "I  cannot  tell,"  she  answered, 
"  but  this  is  for  him,  and  more,  wherever  he  may  be." 


CHAPTER   X 

AT  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  there  were  few  people 
stirring  in  the  miserable  lodging-house  where  the 
hunchback  and  the  girl  had  their  quarters.  From  his 
secret  hiding-place  Drake  came  stealing  with  soft  footsteps 
into  their  little  sitting-room.  He  struck  a  match  and 
lighted  the  stove,  slipped  out  through  the  front  door,  and 
at  a  neighboring  shop  bought  rolls  and  butter  and  fresh 
milk.  These  he  put  carefully  on  one  side.  For  himself  he 
produced  from  the  cupboard  two  small  pieces  of  stale 
bread,  some  rancid  butter,  and  a  coffee-pot,  and  pre- 
pared some  unnameable  compound.  Then  he  arranged 
the  girl's  breakfast  upon  the  tray,  set  the  kettle  once 
more  upon  the  stove,  and  commenced  his  meal. 

Up  and  down  the  little  room  he  walked,  listening  intently 
for  any  sound  in  the  sleeping  house.  His  face  was  drawn 
and  tense  with  emotion.  Sometimes  as  he  walked  he 
cracked  the  joints  of  his  long  fingers.  Sometimes  he  paused 
to  wipe  the  damp  fear  from  his  forehead.  Would  she 
come?  Was  he  going  to  lose  her?  Would  she  oversleep, 
perhaps,  or  change  her  mind  ?  In  his  heart  he  knew  that 
none  of  these  things  was  probable.  He  knew  that  the 


PASSERS-BY  71 

great  sickening  fear  which  had  taken  possession  of  him 
would  soon  be  realized.  How  he  cursed  the  anonymous 
sender  of  those  few  lines !  She  would  go,  he  was  sure  of  it. 
Soon  he  would  hear  her  footsteps  upon  the  stairs,  and  see 
her  hurry  into  the  room,  with  this  new  animation  in  her 
face  which  had  never  left  her  since  she  had  received  the 
letter.  She  would  wish  him  good-by  carelessly  as  usual, 
and  she  would  go  out  of  the  door  never  to  return.  He  was 
sure  of  it,  sure  of  it,  he  told  himself,  with  a  little  sob  of 
agony.  What  was  there  to  keep  her  in  this  bondage  of 
misery  when  once  the  way  of  escape  was  made  manifest  ? 
Eight  o'clock  struck,  and  then  half-past.  Nine,  and 
there  was  no  sound  of  her  coming.  A  faint  impossible 
hope  commenced  to  quicken  his  pulses.  Sometimes  she 
slept  late.  If  she  should  do  so  to-day,  if  she  should  fail  to 
reach  the  station  in  time,  the  man  might  go.  There  would 
be  nothing  left  for  her  but  to  stay  with  him.  She  would 
hate  him  more  than  ever  for  not  having  called  her.  What 
did  it  matter?  There  was  little  he  had  from  her  save 
ungracious  words.  She  would  be  with  him  still.  She 
would  walk  by  his  side.  She  would  accept  day  by  day 
his  constant  service.  He  prayed  that  she  might  be  late. 
In  vain!  Nine  o'clock  had  scarcely  struck  before  he 
heard  her  step  upon  the  stairs.  He  raised  his  hands  high 
above  his  head  in  a  little  gesture  of  despair.  Then,  with 
a  queer  little  sob,  which  somehow  or  other  he  contrived 


72  PASSERS-BY 

to  suppress,  he  took  the  coffee-pot  in  his  hand  and  poured 
in  the  hot  water. 

"Your  breakfast  is  ready,  Christine,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  that  you  would  take  it  downstairs  this  morning." 

Christine  nodded  carelessly.  In  that  first  furtive  glance 
he  had  noticed,  with  sinking  heart,  that  she  was  wearing 
her  best  hat,  and  that  her  clothes,  shabby  though  they 
were,  had  been  carefully  brushed.  She  carried  gloves,  too, 
and  a  little  piece  of  lace  was  at  her  throat.  There  could 
no  longer  be  any  doubt  about  it.  She  was  going  to  the 
station.  She  was  going  to  obey  the  summons  sent  her 
from  this  unknown  source.  She  sat  down  at  the  table, 
and  drank  her  coffee  slowly.  She  was  a  little  pale.  There 
were  dark  rims  under  her  eyes,  which  spoke  of  a  sleepless 
night. 

"You  are  not  coming  with  me,  then?"  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"No,"  he  answered. 

"I  shall  come  back,"  she  said,  "anyhow.  I  shall  come 
back  for  a  little  time,  whatever  happens." 

He  turned  away  that  she  might  not  see  his  face.  "I 
wonder,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 

In  his  heart  he  did  not  wonder  at  all.  He  felt  that  the 
end  had  come.  It  was  there  like  a  dead  weight  over  his 
heart.  After  she  had  finished  her  coffee  she  began  to 
draw  on  her  gloves. 


PASSERS-BY  73 

"They  tell  me,"  she  said,  "that  it  takes  an  hour  to  walk 
to  Victoria  from  here.  I  think  I  will  start." 

"There  is  a  railway  that  goes  underground,"  he  said. 
"I  have  seven  pence  here." 

He  held  out  the  coins,  and  laid  them  with  shaking  fingers 
upon  the  table.  She  took  them  up,  and  put  them  into  her 
pocket. 

"I  will  take  the  money,"  she  said,  "in  case  it  comes  on 
to  rain.  If  not,  I  would  rather  walk." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  turned  round  toward  him.  Her  eyes,  for  a  moment, 
lost  their  far-away  look.  The  lines  of  her  face  seemed  to 
soften. 

"Good-by,  Ambrose,"  she  said.  "Won't  you  wish  me 
fortune?  Remember,  it  is  for  your  sake  as  well  as 
mine." 

He  threw  himself  suddenly  on  his  knees  before  her. 
His  long  fingers  caught  at  her  skirts.  His  eyes  were  full 
of  passionate  tears.  "Don't  go,"  he  cried.  "There  is 
danger,  and  I  am  afraid.  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  not 
come  back.  I  can  earn  more  money.  I  will  get  up  earlier. 
I  will  go  out  in  the  evenings,  Chicot  and  I.  There  are 
many  who  do  well  on  the  streets  when  people  are  going 
and  coming  from  the  theaters.  You  shall  have  more 
clothes,  I  swear  that  you  shall.  Don't  go  away,  Christine. 
I  am  afraid." 


74  PASSERS-BY 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  tolerant  amazement  of  one 
who  sees  an  unexpected  passion  seize  hold  of  a  child. 
"My  dear  Ambrose,"  she  said,  drawing  her  skirts  away 
from  his  clinging  fingers,  "don't  be  absurd.  Sit  up,  and 
remember  that  you  are  a  man.  Remember  that  thb  is 
what  we  came  here  for,  what  we  have  been  looking  for 
ever  since  we  started  the  quest.  A  few  shillings  a  day 
more  —  what  do  you  think  that  could  mean  to  me  ?  I  am 
tired  of  this  wretched  poverty.  I  want  another  life  from 
beginning  to  end.  If  I  do  not  find  it  soon  I  think  that  I 
shall  go  mad." 

Already  he  was  conscious  of  the  futility  of  his  effort. 
He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet.  He  was  feeling  very  weak 
and  very  old.  "Another  life,"  he  muttered.  "Yes,  I 
understand !" 

She  threw  him  a  farewell  nod.  "You  have  been  very 
kind,  Ambrose,"  she  said.  "Do  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall 
forget  it." 

She  left  the  room,  and  from  the  window  he  watched  her 
cross  the  road  and  set  her  face  westward.  He  recognized  a 
new  blitheness  in  her  step,  a  new  grace  in  the  way  she 
held  her  skirts  and  carried  her  head.  The  hope  which 
had  been  almost  crushed  in  her  was  alive  once  more. 
The  signs  of  it  were  all  there,  a  torment  to  him.  He 
turned  back  into  the  room  as  she  disappeared,  finding  it 
strangely  empty.  She  was  gone,  and  in  his  very  misery 


PASSERS-BY  75 

he  was  hopeless.  Something  vital  had  been  torn  from  his 
life.  He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  sofa,  and  Chicot  leaped 
onto  his  shoulder. 

At  twenty  minutes  to  eleven  there  was  all  the  pleasant 
bustle  on  the  platform  at  Victoria  which  precedes  the 
departure  of  the  Continental  train.  Piles  of  registered 
luggage  were  being  checked  and  looked  over  by  their 
owners.  The  people  who  had  arrived  early  were  walking 
up  and  down  the  platform,  saying  good-by  to  their  friends. 
Busy  inspectors  were  scrutinizing  the  labels  to  find  the 
engaged  carriages.  The  boy  who  sold  seats  in  the  French 
train  was  doing  a  thriving  business.  Gilbert  Hannaway 
was  sauntering  by  the  book-stall,  turning  over  magazines, 
and  glancing  frequently  toward  the  main  entrance,  where 
Christine  was  standing,  pale  and  expectant. 

A  few  minutes  before  the  hour,  Lord  Ellingham,  lean- 
ing a  little  upon  the  arm  of  his  secretary,  and  preceded  by 
a  tall  footman,  came  through  onto  the  platform.  He 
looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  but  walked 
straight  through  the  press  of  people  to  take  his  place  in 
the  train.  Hannaway,  whose  emotions  were  not  easily 
aroused,  felt  himself  suddenly  thrilled  as  he  watched  the 
girl.  He  saw  a  new  thing  in  her  face.  He  saw  an  expres- 
sion which  never  before  had  he  seen  in  the  eyes  of  any 
living  person.  She  had  staggered  a  little  back,  and  was 


76  PASSERS-BY 

leaning  slightly  against  the  wall.  Her  hands  were  stretched 
out,  as  though  to  hide  from  her  the  sight  of  some  terrible 
thing.  Her  lips  were  a  little  parted.  Her  eyes  had  grown 
larger,  distended,  terrified.  As  though  against  her  will, 
they  followed  the  movements  of  the  man  who  passed  so  close 
to  her.  They  followed  him  across  the  platform,  followed 
him,  the  central  figure  of  an  obsequious-looking  group,  to 
the  reserved  carriage  awaiting  him.  Her  hands  clutched  at 
the  air.  She  seemed  almost  as  though  she  would  fall. 

Hannaway  crossed  the  platform  to  her.  "Have  you 
nothing  to  say  to  him?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the  car- 
riage, the  door  of  which  was  now  closed. 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  started 
to  cross  the  platform,  and  at  that  moment  Lord  Ellingham 
came  to  the  window  to  give  some  parting  instructions  to 
the  footman.  His  eyes  met  the  girl's,  and  for  the  second 
time  Gilbert  Hannaway  was  thrilled.  He  saw  the  man  at 
the  carriage  window  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence, 
saw  him  clutch  the  sides  of  the  door  for  support,  saw  in 
his  face  something  of  that  same  look  which  had  shone  a 
moment  before  in  the  eyes  of  the  girl  who  was  now  going 
toward  him. 

Hannaway  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  It  was  one  of  the 
great  tragedies  of  life  being  played  before  his  eyes,  between 
these  two,  the  man  and  the  girl,  both  torn  by  some  strange, 
incomprehensible  emotion. 


"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  him  ?  "  he  asked,  pointing 

to  the  carriage.  \fage  76 


PASSERS-BY  77 

The  whistle  of  the  train  blew.  Lord  Ellingham  threw 
open  the  door  of  his  carriage. 

"  Let  her  in,"  he  said  hoarsely,  to  the  inspector. 

The  people  who  stood  around  looked  from  the  girl  to 
him  in  amazement.  Penton,  his  secretary,  was  too  amazed 
to  say  a  word.  The  footman  could  not  think  of  one  to 
utter.  Only  the  inspector,  with  his  mind  upon  his  duties, 
was  able  to  make  any  remark  at  all. 

"The  young  lady  won't  be  going  on,  sir?"  he  asked. 
"We  are  off  now.  There  's  no  time  —  " 

Lord  Ellingham  stretched  out  his  hands  and  drew  her 
into  the  carriage.  The  train  was  already  moving.  There 
was  no  opportunity  for  any  other  protest.  Those  who 
were  left  upon  the  platform,  and  had  witnessed  the  little 
scene,  gazed  after  the  train  in  amazement.  Only  Gilbert 
Hannaway  understood,  and  he  very  dimly,  something  of 
the  meaning  of  what  had  happened. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THREE  nights  later  Gilbert  Hannaway  sat  at  dinner 
in  one  of  the  most  famous  restaurants  of  Paris. 
His  companion  —  he  had  many  friends  on  that  side  of 
the  channel  —  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"My  dear  Gilbert,"  she  said,  "you  asked  me  to  point 
out  to  you  what  I  should  recognize  as  the  real  Parisian 
type,  the  absolutely  smart  woman.  Look!  I  show  her 
to  you.  There !  The  girl  in  the  black  dress,  and  the  hat 
with  white  feathers.  Believe  me,  that  is  the  last  thing 
which  Paris  can  show  you.  Her  shoes,  her  jewels,  her  furs, 
the  cut  of  that  long  jacket,  the  little  dog  with  the  gold 
collar  she  has  under  her  arm,  —  they  are  all  of  the  mo- 
ment, the  latest  thing.  There  is  your  type  for  you." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  was  used  to  surprises,  but  this  one 
left  him  staring,  open-eyed  and  for  a  moment  speechless, 
at  the  girl  and  her  escort,  who,  preceded  by  a  couple  of 
maitres  d'hotel,  and  leaving  in  their  wake  a  little  train  of 
attendants,  —  a  page  boy,  a  cloak-room  attendant,  and  the 
hurrying  manager  of  the  restaurant  himself  —  were  pass- 
ing toward  a  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  which  had 


PASSERS-BY  79 

evidently  been  reserved  for  them.  Marvelous  transfor- 
mation though  it  was,  Hannaway  had  not  a  second's 
doubt  as  to  the  personality  of  the  woman  his  companion 
had  pointed  out.  It  was  the  girl  whom,  three  days  before, 
he  had  seen  drawn  into  the  train  at  Victoria  —  shabby, 
bewildered,  dressed  in  the  same  clothes  in  which  she  had 
tramped  the  streets,  singing  to  the  miserable  music  thumped 
out  by  the  hunchback.  Hannaway  drew  a  little  breath. 
He  looked  across  the  restaurant,  but  he  saw  a  dark  alley 
leading  from  the  Strand,  saw  the  raindrops  glittering  about 
the  dingy  gas-lamps  and  falling  softly  upon  the  soaked 
pavement.  He  saw  the  little  group  gathered  around  the 
piano,  with  its  cracked  notes  and  wheezy  chords.  He  saw 
the  figure  of  the  hunchback  bent  over  his  task,  the  girl, 
with  white,  still  face,  singing  as  though  in  sullen  defiance 
of  the  emptiness  around  her.  He  saw  the  monkey  sitting 
on  the  barrow,  with  something  of  the  hopelessness  of  the 
other  two  reflected  in  his  own  changeless  face.  Even  the 
sound  of  the  girl's  voice  seemed  to  reach  him  as  he  sat 
there.  Then  it  all  faded  away.  He  heard  her  laugh  as  she 
turned  softly  to  her  companion.  Already  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  beauty  which  had  lain  dormant  beneath  her  white, 
strained  features  was  subtly  reasserting  itself.  Hannaway 
called  for  the  bill. 

"Let  us  go,"  he  said  to  his  companion.    "We  have  only 
five  minutes  to  get  to  the  Capucines." 


80  PASSERS-BY 

Christine  toyed  with  her  caviar,  and  tested  the  tempera- 
ture of  the  champagne  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  these 
things  were  part  of  the  routine  of  life.  She  nodded  her  ap- 
proval to  the  anxious  waiter  and  turned  to  her  companion. 

"There  are  no  English  people  here,"  she  said.  "You 
need  not  look  so  worried." 

The  marquis  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "One  cannot 
tell,"  he  answered.  "The  English  are  everywhere.  There 
was  a  young  man  who  has  just  left.  I  could  not  see  his 
face,  but  his  figure  was  English.  I  think  it  is  imprudent, 
this  dining  in  public,  for  many  reasons." 

Christine  laughed  softly.  Her  voice  seemed  to  have 
lost  its  ill-natured  ring.  "If  you  had  dined,"  she  said, 
"as  I  have  dined  for  the  last  few  years,  I  think  that  you 
would  not  mind  a  little  risk." 

"Incidentally,"  he  remarked  politely,  "the  risk  is  mine, 
not  yours." 

"We  share  it,"  she  answered  carelessly.  "Come,  let 
us  not  spoil  our  dinner  by  imagining  things." 

Her  companion  had  not  the  air  of  a  man  to  whom  the 
enjoyment  of  anything  was  possible  just  at  that  moment. 
He  was  looking  paler  and  thinner  even  than  when  he  had 
left  England.  There  were  deep  lines  about  his  mouth. 
His  eyes  seemed  set  farther  back.  He  had  the  uneasy, 
self-conscious  look  of  the  man  who  is  wondering  whether 
he  is  observed. 


"  Look  at  the  big  man  opposite,  with  the  little  girl  in  red. 

How  he  stares  ! "  {Page  81 


PASSERS-BY  81 

"One  should  cultivate  the  art  of  forgetfulness,"  she  re- 
marked. "What  delicious  truffles!" 

"For  you,"  he  muttered,  "it  is  easy  enough.  You  are 
young,  and  you  come  from  hard  times.  For  me  it  is  dif- 
ferent. I  think  that  after  to-night  I  shall  hire  a  chaperon 
for  you,  and  send  you  out  alone." 

"As  you  will,"  she  answered  carelessly,  "although," 
she  added,  smiling  at  him,  "I  prefer  the  present  condi- 
tions. Look  at  the  big  man  opposite,  with  the  little  girl 
in  red.  How  he  stares!  I  think  the  little  girl  will  soon 
call  him  to  account.  She  is  pouting  already." 

The  marquis  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  and  found 
it  damp.  He  pushed  his  plate  away  untasted.  "I  will  not 
do  this  again,"  he  declared.  "I  will  not  show  myself  at 
these  places  with  you,  or  even  alone.  Look  at  the  man 
again,  Christine.  Does  he  remind  you  of  no  one?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "He  reminds  me  more  than  any- 
thing," she  said,  smiling,  "of  a  hippopotamus." 

"I  seem  to  see  him,"  the  marquis  muttered,  "with  a 
beard,  and  in  different  clothes." 

Christine  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  You  are  nervous 
to-night,"  she  said.  "  Drink  some  wine.  It  will  give  you 
courage.  Of  course,  if  you  are  going  to  feel  like  this  all 
the  time,  we  must  give  up  the  restaurants.  It  is  very  fool- 
ish of  you,  though.  There  is  so  little  to  be  feared." 

"I  have  been  afraid  all  my  life,"  he  said  softly,  "of  the 


82  PASSERS-BY 

hundredth  chance.  It  sent  me  down  from  college  once, 
gave  me  my  first  kick  along  the  road  to  failure.  Then  it 
swung  round,  killed  my  relatives  like  flies,  and  made  me 
the  head  of  the  family.  You  say  that  we  are  safe.  We 
may  be,  but  the  hundredth  chance  bothers  me." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "You  seek  misery  open- 
handed,"  she  remarked. 

He  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips,  and  set  it  down  empty. 
"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "I  will  be  more  reasonable. 
At  the  same  time,  I  shall  leave  Paris  to-morrow.  I  loathe 
the  place.  It  reminds  me  of  everything  that  I  have  struggled 
to  forget.  You  are  your  own  mistress.  You  shall  do  as 
you  choose.  Remember  that  every  newspaper  in  England 
has  announced  my  departure  for  Bordighera.  I  was  to 
have  stayed  here  for  the  night  only.  To-morrow  I  shall 
leave." 

"And  I?"  the  girl  asked. 

"  You  can  do  as  you  choose/'  he  answered.  "  I  cannot 
take  you  with  me,  of  course.  You  know  that.  You  can 
engage  an  apartment  here,  or  you  can  go  back  to  London." 

Christine  was  plainly  dissatisfied.  She  met  once  more 
the  stare  of  the  bulbous-faced  man  opposite,  and  routed 
him  completely.  Then  she  proceeded  with  her  dinner  for 
a  few  minutes  in  silence. 

"I  think,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  I  should  like  to  go 
with  you." 


PASSERS-BY  83 

Lord  Ellingham  shook  his  head  irritably.  "That  is 
precisely  what  you  cannot  do,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  going 
to  a  very  small  place,  where  every  one  is  known,  and  his 
comings  and  goings  are  commented  upon  in  the  papers. 
I  could  not  take  you,  of  course.  You  must  know  that.  And 
my  appearance  with  you  in  public,  except  on  one  or  two 
very  rare  occasions,  would  be  impossible." 

"Am  I  so  very  outree?"  she  asked,  with  upraised  eye- 
brows. 

"You  are  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  you  know  it  very  well," 
he  answered.  "At  the  same  time,  young  ladies  of  your 
age  and  attractions  do  not  travel  about  the  country  alone, 
and  when  they  do,  they  would  be  impossible  companions 
for  a  middle-aged  and  respectable  politician  such  as  myself." 

"You  will  have  to  get  me  a  chaperon,"  she  declared. 

"In  England,"  he  answered,  "that  would  be  possible. 
Here  in  Paris  one  cannot  be  hired  at  a  moment's  notice. 
You  are  in  too  much  of  a  hurry,  my  dear  Christine.  Live 
somewhere  quietly  for  a  few  months.  After  all  that  you 
have  been  through,  I  should  think  that  that  alone  would 
be  change  enough." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  thought- 
fully. "Have  you  never  considered,"  she  asked,  "that  I 
might  perhaps  be  lonely?" 

He  reflected  upon  the  matter  for  a  moment,  as  though 
it  were  some  altogether  new  idea  which  had  been  pre- 


84  PASSERS-BY 

sented  to  him.  "I  have  never  looked  upon  you,"  he  said 
frankly,  "as  being  like  other  girls.  I  have  no  doubt,  when 
one  comes  to  think  of  it,  that  you  must  have  found  your 
recent  companionship  a  little  trying." 

She  shuddered.     "  Don't !  "  she  begged. 

"Still,"  he  added,  "I  cannot  perform  miracles.  There 
are  some  ways  in  which  you  must  work  out  your  own 
salvation.  That  will  come  in  time.  Confound  that  fel- 
low opposite !  He  never  takes  his  eyes  off  us.  See,  he  's 
writing  a  note  now.  Maitre  d' hotel!" 

The  man,  who  was  passing,  stopped  with  a  low  bow. 
The  marquis  indicated  the  table  opposite  with  a  slight 
movement  of  his  head. 

"That  man,"  he  said,  "has  annoyed  us  ever  since  we 
came  in.  He  does  nothing  but  stare  at  madame  and 
myself.  Who  is  he?  Do  you  know  his  name?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  He  was  distressed  that 
milord  should  have  been  annoyed.  The  man  opposite, 
he  was  unknown.  He  had  been  seen  but  once  or  twice 
before  in  the  restaurant.  He  was  probably  some  bourgeois 
person,  unused  to  the  presence  of  people  of  breeding. 
Would  milord  care  to  change  his  table?" 

The  marquis  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  not  worth  while," 
he  said.  "We  have  nearly  finished  dinner.  At  the  same 
time,  I  must  confess  that  I  am  a  little  curious  concerning 
that  person.  You  do  not  know  his  name?" 


PASSERS-BY  85 

"  Unfortunately  no,  milord,"  the  man  answered. 

The  marquis  meditatively  laid  a  hundred-franc  note 
upon  the  table  before  him.  He  lowered  his  voice  almost 
to  a  whisper.  "He  has  sent  for  the  chasseur"  he  said. 
"  He  is  handing  him  a  note.  If  you  will  let  me  know,  be- 
fore I  leave  the  restaurant,  to  whom  that  note  was  ad- 
dressed, this  will  be  yours." 

The  maitre  d'hotel  departed  with  an  understanding 
bow.  Christine  glanced  at  her  companion  with  a  smile, 
half  amused,  half  scornful.  "Even  the  shadows  terrify 
you,"  she  said. 

The  marquis  dropped  his  eye-glass.  Once  more  he  had 
repelled,  with  glacial  contempt,  the  scrutiny  of  his  neigh- 
bor. "I  am  not  so  sure,"  he  said,  "whether  it  is  a  shadow. 
I  seem  to  remember  that  man's  face  with  a  brown  beard, 
but  it  was  thinner." 

Christine  laughed  softly.  "If  this  is  to  be  our  last 
evening,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  for  a  moment  upon 
his,  "you  must  not  be  so  foolish.  See,  they  are  going  now. 
They  will  not  annoy  you  any  longer." 

The  man  rose.  He  was  a  great,  coarse-looking  creature, 
with  heavy-lidded  eyes,  and  close-cut  hair  —  a  Frenchman, 
but  of  a  larger  and  grosser  type  than  is  commonly  met 
with.  By  his  side  his  companion  seemed  almost  like  a  doll. 
She,  too,  glanced  often  and  enviously  at  Christine,  as  she 
buttoned  up  her  jacket  and  turned  to  leave  the  restaurant 


86  PASSERS-BY 

They  passed  through  the  swing  door,  and  disappeared 
into  the  street,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  the  maitre 
d'hotel  came  hurrying  up  the  room.  He  laid  a  small 
folded  piece  of  paper  before  the  marquis. 

"The  name  and  address  milord  desired,"  he  said,  with 
a  bow. 

The  marquis  pushed  the  note  across  the  table,  and 
waited  till  he  had  disappeared.  Then  he  softly  unfolded 
it,  and  spreading  it  out  on  the  table  before  him,  adjusted 
his  eye-glass,  and  leaned  down.  Christine  felt  the  sudden 
start,  which  seemed  to  shake  every  nerve  in  his  body. 
She  felt  the  hand  on  which  hers  was  resting  turn  cold. 
When  she  looked  into  his  face  she  was  alarmed. 

"Be  careful!"  she  said.  "They  are  looking  at  you 
from  the  door." 

The  marquis  recovered  himself,  poured  out  a  glass  of 
wine,  and  drank  it  off.  "Come,"  he  said,  rising  a  little 
unsteadily  to  his  feet,  "we  must  go." 

"Let  me  see  the  name,"  she  whispered. 

His  fingers  released  the  crumpled  piece  of  paper.  It 
stared  up  at  her,  scrawled  in  thick  black-lead  characters  — 

MONSIEUR  PIERRE, 
7  Place  Noire, 

Montmartre. 


CHAPTER 

GILBERT  HANNAWAY  smiled  to  himself  as  he 
leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  steamer,  and  watched 
the  great  French  light  go  flashing  across  the  dark,  foam- 
flecked  water.  He  thought  of  the  time  he  had  seen 
Christine  singing  in  the  rainy  street  for  pennies.  He 
turned  his  head  a  little  to  look  at  her  now,  stretched  upon 
a  deck-chair,  covered  with  expensive  furs,  a  jewel-case 
on  her  knees,  a  little  Pomeranian  under  her  arm,  her  maid 
busy  a  few  feet  away  in  the  little  private  cabin  from 
which  she  had  just  issued.  Then  his  face  darkened.  After 
all,  she  had  become  more  unapproachable.  He  felt  that 
as  she  was  at  present  it  would  need  all  his  courage  to 
venture  even  to  address  her. 

However,  his  opportunity  came  before  they  were  half- 
way across.  His  chair  was  next  to  hers,  and  while  she 
apparently  dozed,  her  jewel-case  slipped  from  her  knees 
and  fell  onto  the  deck.  She  opened  her  eyes,  to  see  him 
restoring  it  to  its  place. 

"Allow  me,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  injured  in  the  least. 
It  fell  upon  the  rug." 

She  looked  at  him  steadfastly.    There  was  not  an  atom 


88  PASSERS-BY 

of  fear  in  her  face.  Her  eyes  met  his  frankly.  She  knew 
that  she  was  recognized,  and  she  accepted  the  inevitable. 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said  coolly. 
;'  Marie  1" 

Her  maid  came  out  from  the  cabin.  Christine  handed 
her  the  jewel-case. 

"Take  care  of  this,"  she  said.  "I  find  it  in  my  way 
here." 

Then  she  closed  her  eyes  again,  as  though  to  sleep,  and 
it  seemed  to  Hannaway  that  his  opportunity  had  gone  by. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  only  thinking.  In  a  moment 
or  two  she  opened  them  again.  Glancing  toward  her 
furtively,  he  found  that  she  was  watching  him. 

"It  was  you,"  she  asked  calmly,  "in  Henry's  restaurant 
last  night?" 

"I  was  there,"  he  answered. 

She  nodded.  "I  saw  only  your  back,"  she  remarked, 
"but  I  thought  it  was  you.  I  trust,"  she  added,  with  a 
faint  smile,  and  ignoring  altogether  their  more  recent 
meeting,  "  that  you  have  recovered  from  your  little  accident 
the  other  night?" 

He  smiled.  "I  have  recovered,"  he  answered,  "but  I 
hope  that  you  do  not  always  travel  with  such  energetic 
protectors." 

She  smiled  again.  "You  need  have  no  fear,"  she  said. 
"I  am  alone,  except  for  my  maid,  whom  I  engaged  only 


PASSERS-BY  89 

this  morning,  and  who  certainly  does  not  seem  strong 
enough  to  hurt  a  person  like  you.  Now  Ambrose,"  she 
continued,  "is  small,  but  he  is  very  strong  and  very 
fierce." 

"Is  one  permitted  to  hope,"  he  asked,  "that  an  ac- 
quaintance with  Ambrose  is  not  a  necessity  to  those  who 
wish  to  become  — "  He  hesitated.  Her  eyes  were  fixed 
steadily  upon  his.  He  felt  that  his  speech  might  savor 
almost  of  impertinence.  And  yet,  under  the  circumstances, 
there  was  surely  no  necessity  for  him  to  consider  trifles. 
"To  become  your  friend?"  he  finished  boldly. 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Ambrose,"  she  said, 
"belongs  to  a  part  of  my  life  which  I  imagine  is  over,  for 
the  present  at  any  rate.  You  have  perhaps  surmised 
that." 

He  bowed.  "I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  answered.  "I 
am  afraid  that  my  sudden  appearance  the  other  night," 
he  went  on,  "terrified  you  a  little.  I  was  associated, 
perhaps,  with  the  times  which  you  preferred  to  forget,  but 
I  should  like  to  assure  you,"  he  added,  leaning  toward 
her,  "that  my  coming  was  not  only  the  result  of  my  in- 
terest in  those  times,  but  it  was  also  because  I  was  anxious 
to  see  you  again." 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him  steadily.  An 
electric  light  burned  near  them,  and  his  face  was  clearly 
visible.  It  was  an  honest  enough  face,  fair,  with  straight 


90  PASSERS-BY 

features  and  gray  eyes.  Hannaway  was  seldom  called 
handsome,  but  always  nice  looking.  Women,  as  a  rule, 
trusted  him,  and  women  are  generally  right. 

"I  think  that  I  like  to  hear  you  say  that,"  she  said 
quietly.  "I  wish,"  she  added,  "that  you  could  forget 
altogether  those  other  times.  Remember  that  you  were 
not  concerned  in  them.  What  you  know  you  learned  by 
accident.  They  have  nothing  to  do  with  you.  Can't  you 
forget  that  you  know  anything  of  them  ?  I  wish  that  you 
could." 

"I  think  I  might,"  he  answered,  a  little  doubtfully. 

"You  are  not  sure?"  she  continued.  "Why  should 
you  be  ?  You  remember  our  dinner  together  a  few  nights 


He  nodded.  "Yes,  I  remember  it,"  he  answered.  "I 
fear  that  I  did  not  entertain  you  with  such  success  as  your 
host  last  night." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  is  a  different  thing," 
she  said.  "  When  you  gave  me  that  dinner  I  was  starving. 
Those  days  are  over.  You  asked  me  many  questions. 
You  spoke  only  of  the  past,  and  you  spoke  as  one  anxious 
to  discover  things  that  it  were  better  for  you  to  know 
nothing  of.  When  I  think  of  you  as  that  person,  I  am 
afraid.  I  do  not  wish  to  know  you  or  to  speak  to  you." 

He  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  He  looked  across 
the  sea  to  where  the  great  light  flashed  and  disappeared, 


PASSERS-BY  91 

flashed  and  disappeared.  It  was  odd  that  the  lingering 
impression  which  for  years  he  had  carried  about  with 
him  of  this  girl,  —  a  child  when  he  had  first  seen  her,  a 
woman  now,  —  should  have  been  such  a  lasting  thing, 
should  be  so  easily  stirred  into  vivid  recollection  by  this 
brief  contact  with  her. 

"  If  I  forget,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  chance  ever  brought 
me  near  a  little  group  of  people  about  whose  doings  there 
were  certainly  mysterious  things  —  if  I  forget  this  — " 

Her  hand  flashed  across  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "Forget 
it,"  she  whispered,  "and  remember  that  you  have  found 
again  the  little  girl  to  whom  you  were  once  rather 
kind." 

He  held  the  hand  for  a  moment,  and  smiled  into  her 
face.  "Very  well,"  he  said.  "For  the  present,  let  it  be 
so.  If  I  relapse  again  into  the  curious  person,  I  will 
give  you  warning." 

"You  shall  not  relapse,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him.  "I 
shall  not  let  you  go.  I  have  been  lonely  for  so  long,  and  I 
think  that  I  have  fewer  friends  even  to-day  than  I  had  in 
the  days  when  you  first  knew  me." 

"To-night,  then,"  he  said,  "you  have  added  to  their 
number  by  one." 

It  was  rather  like  a  dream  to  him  afterward,  to  find 
himself  established  as  her  escort,  walking  by  her  side 
from  the  steamer,  seeing  her  small  luggage  through  the 


92  PASSERS-BY 

customs,  bringing  her  coffee  to  the  carriage,  which  a  care- 
fully bestowed  tip  had  secured  for  the  three  of  them.  Her 
maid,  who  spoke  not  a  word  of  English,  was  useless,  and 
evidently  viewed  Hannaway's  coming  as  heaven-sent. 
She  sat  with  closed  eyes  in  a  corner  after  the  train  had 
started,  and  Hannaway  and  Christine  talked  together  in 
English. 

"You  must  wonder  many  things  about  me,"  she  said 
softly.  "We  begin,  of  course,  on  the  night  when  you 
heard  me  sing  in  that  little  alley.  Our  memories  go  no 
farther  back." 

"Mine,"  he  assured  her,  "is  already  a  blank." 
"I  was  not  playing  any  part  then,"  she  went  on.  "I 
can  assure  you  that  I  was  singing  for  my  living,  and  grate- 
ful for  the  pennies  that  Chicot  picked  up.  You  must 
have  seen  how  hungry  I  was  when  you  took  me  to  the 
restaurant." 

"Things,"  he  remarked,  "are  changed  now." 
"They  are  changed,"  she  answered.  "I  was  in  search 
of  some  one  all  the  time.  It  was  for  that  we  were  in 
England,  Ambrose  and  Chicot  and  I.  I  had  almost 
given  up  hope  when  I  found  —  not  the  person  I  expected 
to  find,"  she  continued,  in  a  rather  lower  tone,  "but 
some  one  else.  It  came  to  the  same  thing.  It  was  some 
one  from  whom  I  had  a  right  to  demand  a  release  from 
my  hateful  life." 


PASSERS-BY  93 

"You  mean  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham,  of  course," 
Hannaway  said  softly. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  answered.  "You  saw  me 
with  him  last  night." 

"I  will  tell  you  something  else,"  he  continued.  "I  saw 
you  at  Victoria.  I  saw  you  recognize  him.  I  saw  you 
drawn  into  the  carriage  and  spirited  away." 

She  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips,  a  little  pale  at  the 
recollection  of  that  wonderful  moment.  "You  were 
there?"  she  whispered.  "To  me  it  was  a  great  shock. 
I  saw  him  come,  and  all  the  platform  seemed  spinning 
round.  My  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  I  saw  no  one 
but  him.  You  do  not  understand  that  it  was  wonderful." 

"  No,  I  do  not  understand  altogether,"  he  said.  "  Never 
mind,  I  ask  no  questions.  It  is  he,  of  course,  who  has 
altered  things  for  you." 

"It  is  he,"  she  answered.  "I  have  an  income.  I  have 
a  letter  to  his  solicitors.  They  are  to  find  me  a  house.  I 
am  going  to  have  the  things  I  have  longed  for  all  the  time 
I  have  tramped  those  muddy  streets  in  torn  clothes  and 
thick,  patched  boots." 

"It  is  a  great  change,"  he  murmured. 

"It  is  a  great  change,"  she  assented.  "There  is  only 
one  thing  which  I  fear.  I  shall  have  no  friends.  I  am 
afraid  of  being  lonely." 

He  nodded.     He  felt  that  silence  was  best.     He  could 


94  PASSERS-BY 

ask  no  questions  concerning  Lord  Ellingham  which  might 

not  offend  her. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  he  said.  "Life  without 
friends  is  very  much  like  a  dinner  without  salt.  But  it 
will  not  be  for  long,"  he  added,  looking  at  her. 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  answered. 

"You  are  sure  of  one,  at  any  rate,"  he  declared. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  There  were  many  things 
in  her  face  which  he  could  not  understand.  There  was  a 
sort  of  fear,  and  there  was  a  sort  of  wistfulness.  There 
was  also  an  almost  passionate  intensity.  What  was  it  she 
was  begging  him,  he  wondered.  What  was  it  she  feared 
from  his  friendship,  or  hoped  for? 

"I  hope  that  you  mean  it,"  she  said.  "Oh,  I  do  hope 
that  you  mean  it !  Only  I  have  known  so  few  men,  and 
they  have  not  been  the  sort  that  make  good  friends." 

"At  any  rate,"  he  said  quietly,  "when  friendship  be- 
comes impossible  I  will  tell  you  so." 

She  seemed  puzzled.  She  even  repeated  his  words  to 
herself.  Then  a  possible  meaning  of  them  seemed  to 
occur  to  her.  She  looked  away  with  a  little  uneasy  gesture, 
slightly,  charmingly  confused.  Was  she  really  still  so 
much  of  a  child,  he  wondered,  or  was  she  a  supreme 
actress? 

"We  will  not  think  of  any  evil  days,"  she  said.  "Re- 
member that  to  be  my  friend  will  be  no  sinecure.  There 


PASSERS-BY  95 

will  be  so  many  things  that  I  shall  want  to  know,  so  much 
advice,  so  much  help,  that  I  shall  need." 

"I  am  an  idle  man,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  be  always 
at  your  service." 

"Then  begin,  please,"  she  said,  looking  out  of  the  win- 
dow to  where  the  great  semicircle  of  lights  showed  that 
they  were  approaching  London,  "begin,  please,  by  telling 
me  a  hotel  to  which  I  can  go  with  Marie  here  —  something 
very  good,  but  very  quiet,  where  people  will  not  look  at 
me  because  I  am  alone." 

He  wrote  the  name  and  address  and  gave  it  to  her. 
"You  had  better  mention  my  sister's  name,  Lady  Harting- 
ton,"  he  said.  "She  always  stays  there.  You  see  I  have 
written  her  name  upon  this  little  slip  of  paper." 

The  train  glided  up  to  the  platform.  She  seemed  un- 
accountably nervous. 

"You  will  not  leave  me,"  she  begged,  "until  our  baggage 
has  passed  through  the  customs?  I  am  not  used  to 
traveling  alone.  I  think  that  I  am  a  little  nervous." 

"I  had  no  idea  of  leaving  you,"  he  assured  her.  "We 
will  put  your  small  things  in  a  cab,  and  then  go  back  to 
find  your  trunks.  It  will  be  a  matter  of  only  a  few  minutes." 

Her  eyes  swept  the  platform  immediately  they  descended. 
She  walked  close  to  Hannaway's  side  as  they  moved  about. 
When  at  last  they  drove  off  she  waved  her  hand  out  of  the 
window  of  the  cab,  and  smiled  at  him  delightfully. 


96  PASSERS-BY 

"Au  revoirl"  she  murmured.  "To-morrow,  re- 
member." 

Hannaway  followed  her  a  few  minutes  later,- in  a  han- 
som, on  his  way  to  his  rooms.  The  people  in  the  streets 
seemed  all  unreal.  Never  a  romantic  person,  he  was  sud- 
denly conscious  of  a  vein  of  something  which  assuredly 
had  little  to  do  with  the  practical  side  of  life. 

"It  is  that  cursed  Heine,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  " But 
she  is  wonderful  I" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THEY  were  sitting  side  by  side  in  a  hansom,  Gilbert 
Hannaway  and  Christine,  making  their  way  with 
some  difficulty  along  one  of  the  crowded  side  streets  close 
to  Piccadilly.  They  had  lunched  together,  and  she  was 
dropping  him  at  his  club,  on  the  way  to  her  dressmaker's. 
Suddenly  he  felt  her  fingers  grasp  his  arm.  She  shrank 
back  into  the  farther  corner  of  the  cab. 

"Sit  as  you  are,"  she  said  quickly.  "Don't  look.  It  is 
Ambrose.  He  must  not  see  me." 

Despite  her  entreaty,  his  eyes  wandered  up  the  narrow 
turning,  guided  thereto  by  the  jingle  of  the  cracked  piano. 
It  was  indeed  Ambrose  who  sat  there  playing,  Chicot  with 
him,  but  no  one  else.  There  were  no  listeners,  nor  was 
there  sign  of  any.  Ambrose  played  with  bent  head,  look- 
ing neither  to  the  left  nor  to  the  right.  Chicot  looked 
everywhere,  waving  his  little  hat  in  his  hand,  but  there  was 
no  one  to  whom  to  offer  it. 

"Did  he  see  us,  do  you  think?"  she  gasped,  when  the 
cab  was  safely  by. 

"I  should  imagine  not,"  he  answered.  "He  seemed  to 
be  looking  down  at  his  instrument  all  the  time." 


gg  PASSERS-BY 

She  drew  a  little  breath  of  relief.  His  face,  however, 
remained  grave. 

"Your  late  partner,"  he  remarked,  "seems  to  have 
fallen  upon  evil  times.  He  looks  half  starved." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  He  earns  enough  for  him- 
self," she  answered.  "  He  eats  nothing.  He  only  smokes." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "it 
does  n't  occur  to  you  to  send  him  money  ?  He  was  your 
partner  once,  was  n't  he  ? " 

"If  he  knew  where  it  was  from,"  she  answered  care- 
lessly, "he  would  not  take  it.  He  can  look  after  himself 
quite  well." 

Hannaway  was  suddenly  serious.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  that  he  had  noticed  in  her  this  marvelous  selfishness, 
which  seemed  to  take  no  account  whatever  of  the  feelings 
or  sufferings  of  others. 

"He  looks  older,"  he  remarked.  "I  suspect  he  misses 
you." 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "He  would  miss  me  very  much, 
I  am  sure  of  that." 

"Have  you  written  him  at  all,"  Hannaway  asked,  "since 
you  disappeared?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "What  would  be  the  use?  It 
would  only  unsettle  him.  He  would  not  approve  of  what 
I  have  done,  and  whatever  he  said  would  make  no  differ- 
ence. Tell  me,  do  you  think  he  saw  me?" 


PASSERS-BY  99 

Hannaway  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered.  "I 
was  watching  him  all  the  time.  He  did  not  even  look  up. 
I  don't  think  you  need  be  afraid." 

She  was  unconscious  of  the  slight  note  of  sarcasm  which 
quivered  underneath  his  words.  She  was  apparently  too 
much  wrapped  up  in  her  own  thoughts  and  fears.  The 
cab  pulled  up  suddenly  at  the  door  of  his  club. 

"  Don't  go  in,"  she  said  pleadingly.  "  Drive  home  with 
me.  I  will  give  you  some  tea  presently.  I  don't  want  to 
go  to  my  dressmaker.  I  am  tired  of  clothes." 

He  shook  his  head,  treating  her  words  lightly.  "What 
a  heresy!"  he  declared.  "I  am  sorry,  but,  although  you 
may  not  believe  it,  I  really  have  some  business  to  attend 
to  this  afternoon.  You  are  dining  with  me  to-morrow 
evening,  you  know." 

She  hesitated.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  can,"  she  said 
slowly. 

He  looked  at  her  quickly.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had 
hesitated  to  accept  an  invitation  from  him. 

"To-morrow  night,"  she  said,  "I  believe  that  I  am 
engaged." 

He  waited  for  a  moment,  believing  rightly  that  she  would 
tell  him  more. 

"I  think  that  I  am  dining  with  Lord  Ellingham,"  she 
said.  "He  comes  home  to-night  from  abroad." 

Hannaway  lifted  his  hat  gravely.     "I  had  forgotten," 


100  PASSERS-BY 

he  said.    "  Good-by !    I  shall  see  you  again  soon,  of  course. 

Where  shall  I  tell  the  cabman?" 

"Sixteen  Hanover  Street,"  she  answered,  without  look- 
ing at  him. 

Hannaway  watched  the  cab  drive  off,  but  he  did  not  at 
once  enter  his  club.  Instead,  he  turned  slowly  round,  and 
went  back  along  the  way  by  which  they  had  driven.  Soon 
he  came  to  the  corner  where  Ambrose  had  been  playing. 
He  was  still  there,  still  alone.  He  had  closed  the  piano,  as 
though  in  the  act  of  moving  off.  Hannaway  slowly  ap- 
proached him. 

"You  see,"  he  remarked,  "my  skull  was  too  thick  to 
crack." 

Ambrose  looked  at  him  quickly.  His  face  darkened, 
his  eyes  narrowed  with  anger.  "I  am  sorry,"  he  answered. 
"I  wish  that  you  had  never  moved  again  from  the  place 
where  you  fell." 

Hannaway  laughed  softly.  "What  have  I  done?"  he 
asked. 

Ambrose's  fingers  suddenly  caught  the  arm  of  his  coat. 
"It  was  you,"  he  said,  "who  sent  her  that  note.  Tell  me 
the  truth.  It  was  you  who  sent  her  to  Victoria  Station 
that  morning?" 

"What  of  it?"  Hannaway  answered.  "You  must  re- 
member that  I  am  not  altogether  a  stranger.  It  was  not 
difficult  for  me  to  guess  whom  you  were  seeking,  when  I 


PASSERS-BY  101 

saw  you  in  London.  How  could  I  tell  that  I  was  not  doing 
you  both  a  good  turn?" 

"If  my  curses  can  repay  you  for  it/'  Ambrose  said,  "you 
have  them,  never  fear,  morning  and  night." 

"She  went,  then?"  Hannaway  asked. 

"She  went,"  Ambrose  answered,  "and  I  have  not  seen 
her  since.  Tell  me,"  he  begged  suddenly,  with  another 
change  of  voice.  "Perhaps  you  have  seen  her.  Perhaps 
you  know  where  she  is.  Tell  me/'  he  persisted.  "Do 
you  know?" 

"If  I  did,"  Hannaway  answered,  "why  should  I  tell 
you?  What  do  you  want  with  her?" 

"What  do  I  want  with  her?"  the  dwarf  repeated,  look- 
ing away.  "  My  God  !  What  do  I  want  with  her  ?  Yes, 
I  suppose  that  is  how  it  must  seem  to  you.  I  want  to  see 
her.  If  she  is  happy,  I  want  to  see  that  she  is  happy.  If 
she  is  well  cared  for,  I  want  to  see  her  well  cared  for." 

"What  you  really  want,  I  suppose,"  Hannaway  re- 
marked, a  little  brutally,  "is  to  share  in  her  good  fortune, 
if  she  has  found  it." 

If  a  look  could  have  killed  him,  Hannaway  would  have 
been  struck  dead  on  the  spot.  The  eyes  which  shone  be- 
neath those  bushy  eyebrows  were  red  with  fire.  Ambrose 
took  up  the  handles  of  his  barrow,  and  turned  away  without 
a  word.  Hannaway  felt  not  altogether  satisfied  with 
himself. 


102  PASSERS-BY 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  say  anything 
offensive.  It  certainly  was  a  wretched  life  for  her,  tramp- 
ing the  streets  with  you.  You  can't  be  sorry  if  she  has 
found  something  better." 

"Has  she  found  anything  better?"  Ambrose  demanded. 
"Tell  me.  Tell  me  where  she  is.  If  I  believed  you  knew," 
he  muttered,  "I  would  drag  the  words  out  of  your  throat." 

Hannaway  shook  his  head.  "If  she  had  wished  you 
to  know,"  he  said,  "she  could  have  found  you  out,  I 
suppose  ?" 

Ambrose  shook  his  head  sadly.  "She  was  always,"  he 
said,  "a  little  thoughtless  about  others.  She  was  only 
young,  and  she  was  not  used  to  such  hardships  as  we  had 
to  face.  And  yet  I  did  my  best  for  her.  She  never  really 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry.  I  managed  that  somehow. 
I  did  my  best.  She  had  the  little  things  she  liked,  whenever 
I  could  get  them  for  her.  Chicot  and  I  starved  often,  but 
we  were  strong,  we  could  bear  it." 

"Tell  me,"  Hannaway  asked,  "how  do  things  go  with 
you  now?" 

"Worse,"  Ambrose  answered  slowly.  "People  would 
not  want  to  hear  even  a  Liszt  try  to  drag  melodies  from  a 
thing  like  this,"  touching  the  instrument  contemptuously. 
"They  hurry  on.  It  is  only  because  of  Chicot  that  they 
sometimes  throw  us  a  penny.  And  Chicot,"  he  added, 
passing  his  arm  a  little  anxiously  around  the  animal's 


PASSERS-BY  103 

neck,  "has  not  been  very  well  lately.  It  is  the  climate. 
It  is  cold  and  damp  for  him  here." 

"Why  not  go  back  where  you  came  from?"  Hannaway 
asked.  "Listen!  I  will  pay  your  fare  back  as  far  as  the 
south  of  France,  if  you  like." 

Ambrose  turned  his  head  slowly.  He  looked  into  Hanna- 
way's  face.  "Has  she  sent  you?"  he  asked.  "Does  she 
know  that  we  are  still  here?  Is  she  in  London?" 

"She  did  not  send  me,"  Hannaway  answered.  "I  make 
you  the  offer  because  I  have  money,  and  because  both  you 
and  Chicot  look  out  of  place  here.  Take  it  if  you  will 
You  are  welcome." 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "I  dare  say,"  he  said,  "that 
you  mean  to  be  kind,  but  we  cannot  leave  London.  Some- 
how, I  believe  that  she  is  here.  Some  day  she  will  send  for 
us,  or  try  to  find  us.  She  will  remember  that  she  has  been 
a  little  unkind.  If  we  were  not  here  she  would  be 
disappointed." 

Hannaway  was  silent  for  a  moment.  He  understood 
what  it  was  that  had  brought  him  back.  He  understood 
the  pathos  which  lay  underneath  the  poor,  miserable  ex- 
istence of  this  half-starved  creature.  When  he  spoke  again, 
his  tone  was  different. 

"Tefl  me  where  I  can  find  you,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  I 
may  come  across  her.  If  so,  I  could  let  you  know." 

"Not    unless    she    wishes     it,"    Ambrose    answered. 


104  PASSERS-BY 

"Remember  that    We  will  not  go  near  her  unless  she 

wishes  it" 

"I  will  remember,"  Hannaway  answered. 

"We  are  in  the  same  rooms  as  when  she  went  away," 
Ambrose  continued.  "I  did  not  like  to  leave,  for  fear  that 
she  might  come  back  there.  Number  17  Pickett  Street, 
over  Waterloo  Bridge." 

Hannaway  nodded.  "I  shall  remember,"  he  said. 
"You  will  at  least  let  me  give  Chicot  something  for  his 
supper?" 

He  dropped  a  sovereign  in  the  hat  which  Chicot,  seeing 
the  hand  traveling  toward  his  pocket,  promptly  handed  to 
him.  Ambrose  said  nothing.  He  was  busy  fastening  the 
straps  of  his  barrow  upon  his  shoulders.  As  Hannaway 
turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  he  saw  the  weary  little 
procession  start  on  its  way  along  the  gutter. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  right  Honorable  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  re- 
turned to  England,  as  the  daily  papers  were  all 
happy  to  state,  immensely  improved  in  health.  His 
nerves  were  certainly  in  a  sounder  condition,  for  they 
stood  the  test  of  various  little  shocks  on  his  homeward 
journey  without  once  failing  him. 

The  first  occasion  was  at  the  hotel  in  Paris,  where  he 
and  the  marchioness,  who  had  come  out  to  join  him,  and 
their  somewhat  numerous  suite  spent  the  night.  They 
had  dined  at  the  embassy  the  previous  evening,  and  to- 
night had  themselves  entertained  a  brilliant  little  party  at 
the  Hotel  Ritz.  Lord  Ellingham  had  just  said  farewell  to 
the  last  of  his  guests,  and  was  standing  on  the  pavement 
outside  the  hotel,  looking  across  the  Place  Vendome. 
Suddenly  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his  arm.  A  large  man, 
with  a  red  face  and  thick  neck,  and  wearing  a  fur-lined 
overcoat,  was  standing  by  his  side.  Again  Lord  Elling- 
ham permitted  his  fancy  to  invest  that  smooth-shaven 
face  with  a  long  brown  beard. 

"May  I  be  permitted  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with 
you,  Lord  Ellingham?"  the  man  said,  in  a  low  tone. 


106  PASSERS-BY 

The  marquis  looked  at  him  blandly,  holding  his  cigarette 
in  his  hand.  " I  do  not  understand,"  he  answered.  "I  do 
not  speak  French,"  he  added,  lying  promptly  and  without 
hesitation. 

The  man  was  puzzled.  He  continued,  speaking  rapidly, 
and  still  in  a  half  whisper.  "We  are  not  mistaken,"  he 
said.  "I  myself  saw  you  at  Henry's  some  months  ago. 
Since  then  we  have  made  sure.  It  is  not  wise  to  avoid  us. 
Let  me  assure  you,  my  Lord  Ellingham,  that  it  would  be 
very  unwise  indeed." 

The  marquis,  with  a  turn  of  his  head,  summoned  the 
burly  commissionnaire,  who  had  been  watching  the  little 
scene  suspiciously.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "that  you  had 
better  send  this  person  away.  I  do  not  understand  what 
he  wants,  but  I  fancy  that  he  is  rather  a  bad  lot." 

Lord  Ellingham  turned  away  and  strolled  inside  the 
hotel.  The  man  would  have  followed  him,  but  the  com- 
missionnaire's  hand  lay  heavily  upon  his  shoulder.  There 
was  a  brief  explanation  between  the  two,  during  which  the 
commissionnaire  said  several  things  which  were  very  much 
to  the  point.  Then  the  man  walked  away. 

"My  dear,"  the  marquis  remarked  to  his  wife,  as  he 
bade  her  good  night,  a  few  minutes  later,  "if  it  would  not 
interfere  with  your  plans  very  much,  I  should  like  to 
leave  for  England  to-morrow.  I  have  had  very  pressing 
despatches.'"1 


PASSERS-BY  107 

The  marchioness  made  a  little  wry  face,  for,  of  course, 
she  loved  Paris.  Incidentally,  however,  she  was  also  quite 
attached  to  her  husband. 

"If  you  could  make  it  the  four  o'clock  train,"  she 
suggested. 

"The  four  o'clock  train  it  shall  be,"  he  answered,  rais- 
ing her  hand  to  his  lips. 

They  reached  the  Gare  du  Nord  the  next  day  with  very 
little  time  to  spare.  One  of  the  secretaries  from  the  em- 
bassy, who  was  Lord  Ellingham's  nephew,  came  to  see 
them  off.  Several  of  the  officials  from  the  railway,  too, 
were  on  the  platform,  so  that  the  marquis,  as  he  passed  up 
to  his  place,  was  the  center  of  a  little  group.  His  friend  of 
the  fur-lined  overcoat,  attended  by  a  smaller  man  who  had 
a  dark,  wizened  face,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form. The  two  turned  and  followed  the  little  procession. 
Obviously  they  were  doing  their  best  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  marquis.  He  surveyed  them,  through  his 
eye-glass,  with  bland  unconsciousness,  however,  and,  bid- 
ding farewell  to  his  friends  some  few  minutes  before  the 
train  was  due  to  leave,  took  his  place  in  the  reserved  com- 
partment, with  his  back  to  the  window,  talking  earnestly 
to  his  nephew,  who  had  accompanied  him.  The  two  men 
stood  a  few  feet  away  upon  the  platform.  Once  Lord 
Ellingham  heard  a  soft  tapping  on  the  window-pane,  but 
he  did  not  turn  his  head.  He  only  glanced  out  of  the 


108  PASSERS-BY 

window  as  the  train  was  finally  leaving  the  platform.  The 
tall  man  was  still  standing  there,  with  his  hands  thrust 
deep  into  his  overcoat  pockets.  His  companion  had 
disappeared. 

It  was  a  fine  crossing,  and  Lord  Ellingham  walked  alone 
upon  the  upper  deck.  About  halfway  across,  he  recog- 
nized the  smaller  of  the  two  men  who  had  been  at  the 
station.  The  latter,  choosing  his  opportunity,  accosted 
him. 

"Lord  Ellingham,  I  believe,"  he  said  in  English. 

The  marquis  looked  down  upon  him  a  little  impatiently. 
"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"  I  want  a  few  words  with  your  lordship  concerning  one 
Philip  Champion,"  the  little  man  said.  "Your  lordship 
may  perhaps  remember  the  name." 

Lord  Ellingham  shook  his  head  and  passed  on.  "I 
never  heard  it  in  my  life,"  he  said.  "You  will  excuse  me." 

"It  will  be  better  for  you  to  talk  to  me,"  the  little  man 
began.  "Evasions  will  not  answer  for  very  long." 

The  marquis  threw  away  the  match  with  which  he  had 
just  lit  a  cigarette.  He  stared  hard  at  the  person  who  had 
accosted  him.  "I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "that  you  cannot 
be  well.  I  simply  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about, 
and  I  do  not  choose  to  converse  with  strangers." 

He  walked  away,  and  descended  the  steps  to  the  lower 
deck,  where  he  joined  his  wife  in  her  private  cabin.  His 


PASSERS-BY  109 

nerves  were  certainly  very  much  better!  He  sat  and 
chatted  with  her  until  they  reached  the  harbor,  and  him- 
self escorted  her  to  the  reserved  carriage  which  was 
attached  to  the  train.  At  Charing  Cross,  the  brougham 
was  waiting  almost  opposite  the  spot  where  the  carriage 
stopped.  From  the  window,  as  they  drove  out,  Lord 
Ellingham  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  little  man  hurrying 
along  the  platform.  He  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  and 
smiled.  The  marchioness  suppressed  a  yawn. 

"You  are  in  great  spirits,  Francis,"  she  said. 

He  smiled.  "I  am  feeling  better,"  he  said.  "A  little 
more  fight  in  me." 

"The  change  has  certainly  done  wonders  for  you,"  she 
remarked.  "You  look  quite  fresh.  I  feel  a  perfect  rag 
myself.  It  was  such  a  hateful  journey." 

The  marquis  smiled.  "  It  is  a  dull  journey,"  he  admitted. 
"Suffers,  as  a  rule,  from  lack  of  incident,  doesn't  it? 
Well,  we  are  back  again,  and  London  looks  about  the 
same." 

"You  are  glad  to  be  back,  of  course,"  she  remarked. 

"It  is  always  a  little  interesting,"  he  answered,  "to  take 
up  the  threads." 

The  marquis  sat  up  late  that  night,  going  through  letters 
with  his  secretary.  When  they  had  nearly  reached  the 
end  Penton  produced  three  envelopes  from  his  coat 
pocket. 


110  PASSERS-BY 

"Your  lordship,"  he  remarked,  "was  particular  to  give 
me  instructions  to  open  everything,  even  letters  that  were 
marked  strictly  private.  There  are  three  communications 
with  which  I  have  been  unable  to  do  anything,  and  which 
I  imagine  must  have  been  sent  to  your  lordship  in 
error." 

He  spread  them  out  upon  the  table.  There  were  three 
sheets  of  foreign  notepaper,  addressed  to  the  Marquis  of 
Ellingham  in  typewritten  characters.  Their  contents  were 
the  same.  There  was  a  single  sentence,  which  occupied 
only  a  small  space  in  the  middle  of  the  sheet  of  paper  — 

Philip  Champion  is  requested  to  communicate  with  his 
friends. 

The  marquis  read  the  sentence  over  slowly,  and  knitted 
his  brows  a  little,  as  one  confronted  with  a  problem.  His 
nerves  were  certainly  stronger,  for  neither  did  he  change 
color  nor  did  the  fingers  which  held  the  thin  sheets  of 
foreign  notepaper  tremble. 

"What  the  devil  is  this,  Penton?"  he  asked. 

"I  have  no  idea,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered.  "There 
are  the  letters,  just  as  they  arrived,  addressed  to  you  and 
marked  private.  And  look  here." 

He  turned  to  the  reading-table  and  picked  up  the 
Daily  Mail  and  the  St.  James*  Gazette.  He  pointed  to 
the  agony  column  of  each.  The  same  announcement 
appeared  — 


PASSERS-BY  111 

Philip  Champion  is  requested  to  communicate  with  his 
friends. 

"Is  it  an  advertisement,  do  you  suppose ?"  the  marquis 
asked. 

"If  so,"  the  secretary  answered,  "the  explanation  would 
have  to  come  separately,  for  there  is  none  yet  that  I  can 
see." 

"No  new  patent  food  or  medicine?"  the  marquis 
suggested. 

The  secretary  shook  his  head.  "  I  have  never  heard  the 
name  of  Philip  Champion  before,"  he  answered,  "nor 
have  I  seen  it  connected  with  any  commodity  of  that 
sort." 

The  marquis  replaced  the  letters  in  the  envelopes. 
"Keep  them,"  he  said  carelessly.  "Some  explanation 
may  come  to  us  later  on.  We  have  done  enough  for  to- 
night, I  think,  Pen  ton.  You  may  go." 

The  young  man  took  his  leave.  The  marquis  sat  alone 
in  his  easy  chair,  watching  the  dying  fire.  He  could  hear 
the  steady  footsteps  of  the  policeman  pacing  the  stone 
flags  outside.  The  roar  of  the  city  had  died  away.  It  was 
the  one  hour  of  quietness  which  comes,  even  to  London, 
before  the  dawn.  He  looked  into  the  fire,  and  thought 
steadily  of  what  might  lie  before  him.  He  wasted  no  time 
in  regrets.  He  had  done  once  and  forever  with  all  nervous 
fears.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  his  course.  It 


112  PASSERS-BY 

was  to  be  war  to  the  end,  war  to  the  hilt  of  the  knife.  If 
he  went  down,  he  would  go  down  fighting.  He  had  a  great 
name,  the  honor  of  a  great  family  to  guard.  Something 
of  the  spirit  of  his  fighting  forefathers  stirred  in  his  blood, 
as  he  sat  there  through  the  silent  hours  and  planned  the 
days  to  come. 


CHAPTER   XV 

CHRISTINE  was  in  one  of  her  worst  tempers.  Gil- 
bert Hannaway  had  not  been  near  her  since  they 
had  parted  the  afternoon  before,  and  Lord  Ellingham  was 
already  nearly  half  an  hour  late.  She  sat  in  her  easy  chair, 
her  opera-cloak  about  her  shoulders,  her  gloves  ready 
buttoned,  and  the  minutes  seemed  to  pass  like  hours.  At 
last  she  heard  the  elevator  stop,  and  the  ring  of  her  front 
door-bell.  A  moment  later  the  parlormaid  admitted  Lord 
Ellingham. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  madam,"  she  announced. 

Christine  rose  to  her  feet.  The  marquis  came  in  with  a 
little  gesture  of  apology. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  you  must  have  a  little 
consideration  for  an  unfortunate  servant  of  his  country 
who  has  had  too  long  a  holiday.  I  simply  could  not  get 
away." 

She  nodded.  "Why  did  you  not  give  your  name  to  the 
servant?"  she  asked. 

He  took  her  hands,  raised  one  of  them  for  a  moment  to 
his  lips,  and  then  turned  away  with  a  little  laugh.  "My 
dear  child,"  he  said,  "you  will  find  that  this  city  is  like  a 


114  PASSERS-BY 

great  nursery,  where  people  can  whisper  one  to  the  other 
all  the  time.  To  the  world,  you  are  Miss  Christine  de 
Lanson,  and  I  am  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham.  The  partic- 
ular reasons  which  brought  me  to  dine  tete-a-tete  with  you 
would  not  be  a  profitable  subject  for  conjecture." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Why  should  I  care?" 
she  said,  a  little  hardly.  "  I  have  no  friends.  There  is  no 
one  whose  opinion  is  anything  to  me." 

"  That  we  may  some  day  be  able  to  remedy,"  the  marquis 
said.  "In  the  meantime,  where  are  we  to  dine?" 

"Wherever  you  like  to  take  me,"  she  answered. 

Lord  Ellingham  hesitated.  "You  have  a  restaurant 
attached  to  the  apartments,  have  you  not?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  "I  have  dined  there,"  she  said,  "for  the 
last  two  months,  a  great  many  times  too  often.  You  will 
have  to  take  me  somewhere  else  to-night." 

He  looked  grave  for  a  moment,  but  he  made  no  objec- 
tions. Her  maid  came  in  to  adjust  her  cloak,  and  they 
went  down  in  the  elevator  together. 

"If  you  do  not  mind,"  Lord  Ellingham  said,  "I  shall 
take  you  to  one  of  the  smaller  restaurants.  Until  we  have 
decided  what  is  really  best  to  be  done  with  you  it  is  not 
wise  that  we  should  be  seen  together  too  much.' 

"Anywhere  you  please,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously  as  they  glided  along  the 
streets  in  his  electric  brougham.  It  was  not  until  they 


PASSERS-BY  115 

were  seated  at  dinner,  however,  that  he  spoke  to  her 
seriously. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  have  some  of  the  things,  at  any 
rate,  which  you  craved.  You  have  a  home,  you  have 
carte  blanche  at  your  dressmaker's,  you  have  jewelry,  a 
carriage,  a  motor-brougham.  These,  I  believe,  were  the 
things  on  which  you  laid  most  stress.  I  see  that  you  are 
no  longer  thin,  that  there  is  nothing  now  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  you  are  a  remarkably  handsome  young  woman. 
Tell  me,  how  does  it  feel  ?  Are  you  satisfied  ?" 

"No,"  she  answered. 

He  nodded.  "This,"  he  remarked,  "is  interesting.  I 
think  that  if  I  had  not  turned  to  politics  I  should  have 
tried  to  write  a  novel.  There  is  much  in  the  study  of 
human  beings  which  interests  me.  You  have  all  that  you 
asked  for,  and  you  have  them  in  sharp  contrast  with  the 
life  which  you  were  living  when  I  found  you." 

"Excuse  me,"  she  interrupted.    "When  I  found  you." 

"I  am  corrected,"  he  admitted,  "but  the  facts  remain 
the  same.  But  tell  me  what  there  is  still  lacking." 

"I  am  lonely,"  she  answered.  "I  want  friends.  No- 
body knows  who  I  am.  Nobody  cares.  My  servants  do 
their  duty;  I  am  their  mistress,  nothing  else.  They  serve 
me  at  the  shops;  I  am  a  customer,  nothing  else.  The 
beggars  to  whom  I  throw  money  thank  me;  I  am  a  source 
of  income,  nothing  else." 


116  PASSERS-BY 

"You  want  friends,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully. 

"I  do,"  she  answered.  "I  have  one,"  she  went  on.  "I 
dare  say  that  you  would  call  him  a  dangerous  one.  Do 
you  remember  an  Englishman  —  " 

"Gilbert  Hannaway?"  he  interrupted  quickly. 

She  nodded.  "Our  meeting,"  she  remarked,  "was 
scarcely  encouraging.  Months  ago,  before  I  had  found 
you,  he  saw  us  and  spoke  to  us  in  a  little  court  off  the 
Strand,  where  I  had  been  singing.  I  did  not  want  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  him.  You  can  guess  why.  And 
Ambrose,  when  he  persisted  in  following  us,  struck  him. 
We  left  him  lying  in  the  court,  and  escaped.  Afterward 
I  met  him  in  the  street.  We  talked  together.  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  knew  less  than  I  had  feared.  He 
was  on  the  boat  when  I  crossed  from  Paris.  Since  then 
he  has  been  to  see  me  often." 

"He  came  to  see  me  once,"  the  marquis  said  thought- 
fully. "  I  suspected  him  then.  I  had  an  idea  that  he  was 
one  of  those  busybodies  who  go  about  the  world  imagin- 
ing themselves  heaven-sent  solvers  of  mysteries.  I  thought 
that  he  had  learned  a  little,  and  was  trying  to  discover 
everything." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  answered.  "He  never  talks 
about  the  past  to  me." 

"Then  it  is  possible  that  you  may  find  him  a  useful 
friend,"  the  marquis  said,  "for  I  want  to  warn  you  that 


PASSERS-BY  117 

they  are  thick  upon  the  trail,  upon  my  trail,  at  any  rate. 
They  came  to  me  in  Paris,  they  tried  to  speak  to  me  upon 
the  steamer,  they  have  written  me  private  letters,  they 
have  advertised  in  the  papers.  You  can  see  it  in  the  agony 
column  of  the  Mail  any  day  —  'Philip  Champion  is  re- 
quested to  communicate  with  his  friends.'" 

"And  what,"  she  asked,  "is  Philip  Champion  going  to 
do?" 

"Philip  Champion  is  dead,"  the  marquis  answered. 
"The  Marquis  of  Ellingham  knows  nothing  of  him.  I  am 
not  the  nervous  creature  I  was  a  few  months  ago.  If  these 
men  press  me  hard  I  am  going  to  fight.  But  I  wanted  to 
warn  you.  If  they  have  not  found  you  out  already,  it  can 
only  be  a  question  of  hours.  You  will  have  to  choose  with 
whom  you  take  sides,  and  choose  quickly.  If  you  side 
with  me,  you  will  have  dangers  to  confront,  as  I  shall. 
If  you  side  with  them,  I  imagine  that  it  will  shorten  the 
struggle." 

She  counted  rapidly  upon  her  fingers.  "There  are  only 
three  left,"  she  said,  "three  only  to  be  feared,  and  the 
worst  of  these  is  Anatoile  Devache." 

"  He  is  in  London,  I  believe,"  the  marquis  said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  horror  in  her  face. 
"And  yet  you  go  about  and  you  do  not  seem  afraid!" 
she  said. 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  he  answered.    "Look  at  my  hand," 


118  PASSERS-BY 

he  continued,  raising  his  glass  to  his  lips.  "It  does  not 
shake.  I  go  about  my  daily  life  without  a  thought  of  fear. 
I  tell  myself  always  that  Philip  Champion  is  dead.  He 
died  in  prison,  I  believe ;  but  as  for  that,  it  does  not  matter. 
He  is  dead,  and  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  has  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  any  one  of  his  friends." 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better,"  she  asked,  "to 
make  terms?" 

"No!"  he  replied.  "  Think  of  the  men !  What  would 
satisfy  them  ?  What  would  they  ask  for  a  life  ?  I  am  not 
a  rich  man.  My  estates  are  already  mortgaged  to  raise 
large  sums  of  money.  I  should  practically  embarrass 
them  for  generations.  Even  then  I  should  not  win  my 
way  free.  I  will  not  do  it.  If  I  am  found  some  night  with 
a  dagger  in  my  heart,  at  least  I  shall  die  saying  that  I  am 
not  Philip  Champion,  that  I  never  knew  him." 

She  shivered.  "These  are  terrible  enemies  to  have," 
she  whispered. 

He  nodded.  "That  is  why,"  he  said,  "I  would  not 
have  you  declare  yourself  upon  my  side.  You,  at  any  rate, 
had  better  temporize  with  them.  Let  them  make  what 
use  of  you  they  can." 

"It  is  Anatoile  that  I  fear,"  she  muttered.  "I  wish 
you  had  not  told  me  that  he  is  in  England." 

Their  relative  positions  had  become  reversed.  In  Paris 
he  had  been  nervous  and  afraid,  while  she  had  been 


PASSERS-BY  119 

bold.  Now  he  was  calm  and  collected,  and  she  was 
afraid. 

"Nothing  will  happen  to  you,"  he  said  reassuringly. 
"Only  you  must  be  prepared.  It  will  certainly  not  be 
long  before  they  find  you  out." 

She  looked  around  a  little  nervously,  and  he  smiled. 

"One  can  understand,"  he  said,  "meeting  Anatoile  in 
the  strangest  corners  of  the  world,  but  I  can  assure  you 
that,  many-sided  though  he  is,  he  would  never  dare  to 
penetrate  into  this  little  restaurant.  He  is  somewhere 
down  in  Soho  at  the  present  moment,  I  expect,  dining  and 
trying  to  satisfy  that  tremendous  thirst.  Come,  we  have 
finished  with  that  subject.  The  thing  which  is  upon  my 
mind  is  exactly  what  further  I  can  do  for  you." 

A  rare  moment  of  tenderness  came  over  Christine.  Her 
fingers  stole  under  the  table  and  pressed  his.  She  looked 
at  him  with  softened  expression. 

"You  have  courage,"  she  said.  "It  doesn't  matter 
about  me  just  now.  I  suppose  I  shall  get  on  somehow. 
You  do  not  mind  my  knowing  Mr.  Hannaway?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  the  marquis  answered.  "Only  I 
think  that  I  must  write  Philipson's  about  providing  a 
chaperon  for  you.  I  must  either  do  that  or  you  must  make 
up  your  mind  to  live  always  as  a  Bohemian." 

"I  hate  restraint,"  she  answered,  "but  I  should  love  to 
have  some  friends.  Life  is  so  cold,  and  one  becomes  so 


120  PASSERS-BY 

selfish  when  one  is  altogether  alone.  Sometimes  I  am 
afraid.  If  it  were  not  for  the  novelty  of  being  rich  I  should 
be  miserable." 

They  left  the  restaurant  a  few  minutes  later. 

"I  must  take  you  straight  home,"  Lord  Ellingham  said, 
as  he  handed  her  into  the  brougham.  "  I  have  two  recep- 
tions to  attend  to-night.  Perhaps  you  will  give  me  some 
tea  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  we  will  talk  seriously." 

"I  should  like  to,"  she  answered. 

He  left  her  at  the  door  of  the  house  where  she  lived. 
She  ascended  in  the  elevator,  and  let  herself  in  with  the 
latch-key.  The  room  was  in  darkness,  and  from  the  mo- 
ment she  entered  she  had  a  curious  feeling  that  something 
had  happened.  She  sprang  to  the  lights,  and  turned  them 
on  with  trembling  fingers.  Then  she  opened  her  lips  to 
cry  out,  but  she  was  suddenly  dumb,  dumb  with  horror. 
She  staggered  back  against  the  wall,  and  felt  with  her 
fingers  for  the  electric  bell.  When  at  last  she  found  it, 
and  heard  its  shrill  summons  go  echoing  outside,  she  was 
able  to  close  her  eyes. 


She  advanced  with  slow,  hesitating  footsteps  toward  the  spot 

where  the  man  was  tying.  [Page  121 


CHAPTER   XVI 

IT  was  only  for  a  moment  that  Christine  lost  control  of 
herself.  Her  persistent  ringing  of  the  bell  brought 
into  the  room  her  parlormaid,  followed  by  another  do- 
mestic. Amidst  a  chorus  of  exclamations,  she  rapidly 
became  the  coolest  of  the  trio. 

"One  of  you  ring  for  the  elevator  man,"  she  directed. 
"We  must  have  a  man  here  of  some  sort.  You,  Alice, 
ring  up  the  exchange.  Ask  to  be  put  on  to  the  police 
station.  Tell  them  to  send  some  one  round  here  at  once." 

The  girl  shivered  and  burst  into  hysterical  sobs.  "I 
can't,  I  can't!"  she  shrieked,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Christine  went  to  the  telephone  herself.  "I  must  have 
an  inspector  here  at  once,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  was 
connected.  "I  have  just  returned  home  and  found  a  man 
here  in  my  rooms.  I  think  he  is  dead.  Number  42  Vic- 
toria Flats.  Please  send  some  one  quickly.  There  are 
no  men  here,  and  we  are  frightened." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  she  advanced  with  slow,  hesitat- 
ing footsteps  toward  the  spot  where  the  man  was  lying. 
There  were  signs  of  a  struggle  in  the  room.  A  vase  which 
had  stood  upon  a  small  table  was  smashed  into  a  thousand 


122  PASSERS-BY 

pieces.  The  table  itself  lay  on  its  side.  Books  were  strewn 
everywhere,  a  chair  was  overturned,  the  hearth-rug  was 
doubled  up.  She  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  object  that 
lay  half  hidden  by  the  round  table  —  a  strong  man,  with 
big  eyes  and  thick  neck.  She  recognized  him  at  once. 
She  had  seen  him  in  the  restaurant  in  Paris.  Dimly  she 
remembered  him  even  before  that.  He  lay  there  now,  a 
ghastly  object,  with  all  the  high  color  gone  from  his  cheeks, 
his  eyes  closed,  the  knife  with  which  he  had  been  stabbed 
still  in  his  side.  She  turned  away,  feeling  a  little  sick,  and 
clutched  at  the  elevator  man,  who  had  just  hurried  in. 

"  Don't  go  away,"  she  begged.  "  Wait  till  the  inspector 
comes.  We  are  all  terrified.  Something  has  happened 
in  my  rooms  while  I  have  been  out." 

The  man  was  staring  at  the  prostrate  form.  "  My  God  ! " 
he  exclaimed.  "  He 's  stabbed !  I  brought  him  up  not 
an  hour  ago." 

"Was  he  alone?"  she  asked. 

The  man  nodded.  "  He  was  alone  when  I  brought  him," 
he  answered.  "He  was  alone  when  he  rang  your  bell. 
I'll  answer  for  that." 

"How  long  have  you  been  on  duty?"  a  quiet  voice 
asked  from  behind. 

They  turned  round.    The  police  inspector  had  arrived. 

"Keep  back,  all  of  you,"  he  said.  "Nothing  in  the 
room  must  be  disturbed.  Who  knows  anything  of  this  ?" 


PASSERS-BY  123 

There  was  little  enough  to  be  told.  The  man  had  arrived 
about  nine  o'clock,  had  rung  the  bell  and  asked  for  Miss 
de  Lanson.  The  parlormaid  had  answered  the  bell,  and 
had  explained  that  Miss  de  Lanson  was  out.  She  had 
recovered  now  from  her  hysterics  sufficiently  to  explain 
that  the  man  seemed  to  have  come  from  a  journey,  and 
spoke  very  civilly,  but  begged  for  permission  to  wait  until 
Miss  de  Lanson  returned.  With  some  misgivings,  she 
had  allowed  him  to  sit  down  in  the  dining-room,  while  she 
returned  to  the  kitchen.  She  heard  no  struggle,  no  sound 
of  any  sort.  The  bell  did  not  ring  again,  nor  did  she 
admit  any  one.  She  heard  the  elevator  ascend  with  her 
mistress,  heard  her  mistress  open  the  door,  heard  the 
shriek  and  the  clanging  of  the  electric  bell. 

The  police  inspector  asked  few  questions,  but  he  re- 
mained in  the  room  a  long  time,  taking  notes.  The  doctor, 
whom  he  had  summoned  immediately  on  his  arrival, 
made  but  the  briefest  of  examinations.  The  man  had 
been  dead,  he  declared,  at  least  an  hour,  stabbed  right 
through  the  heart  by  some  one  who  knew  the  exact  spot 
to  drive  a  knive  home. 

Christine  left  them  there.  The  inspector  had  decided 
to  stay  all  night.  She  went  to  her  room  and  sat  down. 
It  was  Anatoile,  one  of  the  three  she  had  feared,  in  her 
room,  and  dead !  After  all  she  had  been  told,  it  was  not 
surprising  that  he  should  have  been  there,  but  who  had 


124  PASSERS-BY 

killed  him  ?  How  had  he  met  with  his  death  ?  She  felt 
herself  trembling  all  over.  The  shock  of  the  thing  seemed 
to  grow  more  intense.  She  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was 
not  yet  midnight.  She  looked  through  the  telephone  book 
hastily  and  rang  up  Gilbert  Hannaway's  club.  Yes,  he 
was  there.  The  man  went  away  to  find  him.  There  were 
a  few  minutes  of  suspense.  Then  she  heard  a  familiar 
voice,  and  her  heart  gave  a  sudden  beat  of  relief. 

"Is  that  you?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  Gilbert  Hannaway,"  he  answered.  "Who  are 
you?" 

"I  am  Christine  de  Lanson,"  she  answered.  "Some- 
thing terrible  has  happened  here.  I  want  you,  if  you  will, 
to  come  to  me.  Do  come,  please." 

"I  shall  be  around  in  five  minutes,"  was  the  quiet 
answer. 

She  laid  down  the  receiver  with  a  little  breath  of  relief. 
It  was  something,  this,  to  know  that  some  one  was  coming 
on  whom  she  could  rely,  some  one,  too,  who  knew  a  little 
of  the  truth.  She  went  out  into  the  passage,  walking  up 
and  down  waiting  for  him.  As  soon  as  she  heard  the 
elevator  stop,  she  threw  open  the  front  door.  It  was 
obvious  that  he  had  already  heard  the  news,  for  he  came 
in  pale  and  with  a  scared  look  in  his  face.  She  took  him 
into  the  little  drawing-room. 

"It  is  Anatoile,"  she  said.    "Listen.    To-night  I  went 


PASSERS-BY  125 

out  to  dinner  with  Lord  Ellingham.  There  was  no  one 
here  when  we  left.  They  say  he  arrived  about  nine.  I 
returned  at  five  minutes  past  ten.  I  let  myself  in  as  usual, 
walked  into  the  dining-room,  turned  on  the  lights,  and 
there  he  was,  lying  in  the  room,  stabbed  to  the  heart. 
The  doctor  said  he  had  been  dead  more  than  an  hour. 
There  had  been  a  struggle,  too,  for  the  furniture  was  all 
overturned." 

"Who  else  had  called  to  see  you?"  Hannaway  asked 
softly. 

"The  elevator  man  declares  no  one,"  she  answered. 
"My  servants  say  they  admitted  no  one." 

"Lord  Ellingham — "  he  began. 

"Lord  Ellingham  dined  with  me.  He  left  me  below. 
He  did  not  come  up,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Listen.  I  want 
you  to  go  to  him.  I  want  you  to  tell  him  what  has  hap- 
pened. Ask  his  advice.  Come  back  and  see  me.  Am  I 
to  say  that  I  dined  with  him  to-night  when  they  ask  me 
where  I  was?  How  much  am  I  to  tell  them?  Go  and 
see  him,  please,  and  bring  me  back  word." 

Hannaway  took  up  his  hat.  "  I  will  go  at  once,"  he  said. 
"Why  not  come  with  me?  You  are  scarcely  fit  to  be  left 
here  alone." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  am  not  a  child,"  she  said.  "I 
am  a  little  shaken,  that  is  all.  Go  to  Lord  Ellingham's 
and  come  back  here.  I  shall  be  up." 


126  PASSERS-BY 

She  went  back  to  her  room.  Soon  her  maid,  who  had 
recovered  a  little  from  her  terror,  came  in  to  undress  her. 

"I  am  not  going  to  bed  yet,  Marie,"  she  said.  "I  have 
sent  to  ask  for  some  one  to  advise  me.  How  can  one  sleep 
knowing  that  there  is  a  dead  man  a  few  yards  away  ? " 

Marie  held  out  her  hands.  It  was  terrible  that  such 
things  should  happen  in  England.  For  her  part,  she 
wished  that  she  had  never  come  to  so  barbarous  a  country. 
And  monsieur  the  inspector  he  was  sitting  there  all  night 
with  the  corpse!  They  had  had  a  glimpse  of  him  just 
now.  He  was  on  the  floor  on  his  hands  and  knees  making 
notes. 

Christine  let  her  talk.  All  the  time,  one  thought  was 
working  in  her  brain.  Who  could  have  killed  him  ?  Who 
in  the  world  could  have  intervened  at  such  a  moment? 
What  would  they  think,  the  others?  What  would  they 
believe  ?  It  had  taken  place  in  her  rooms  —  would  they 
visit  it  upon  her? 

Again  there  was  the  rattle  of  the  elevator  gates.  It 
was  Hannaway  returning.  She  went  out  to  him.  They 
sat  together  in  the  little  drawing-room.  The  fire  had 
gone  out,  and  she  was  shivering  with  cold  and  fear. 

"I  have  seen  Lord  Ellingham,"  he  announced.  "He  is 
terribly  shocked,  and  most  anxious  on  your  account.  He 
begs  you  to  send  for  Mr.  Lawson  early  in  the  morning, 
but  thinks  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  mention  with  whom 


PASSERS-BY  127 

you  dined,  as  your  evidence  in  the  case,  so  far  as  regards 
the  murder  itself,  cannot  be  important.  He  will  come  to 
sec  you  himself  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

She  drew  a  little  breath.  Somehow  or  other  she  seemed 
relieved  at  his  message. 

"Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do?"   he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  now,"  she  said.  "There 
is  nothing  to  sit  up  for.  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

He  was  amazed  at  her  sudden  coolness.  "You  are  not 
frightened?"  he  asked. 

"Why  should  I  be?"  she  answered.  "The  man  was  a 
stranger  to  me.  He  came,  I  suppose,  as  a  thief.  For  the 
rest,  I  cannot  form  even  the  slightest  idea  as  to  what 
happened  to  him  in  my  room." 

She  looked  him  in  the  eyes,  and  he  nodded  slowly. 

"That  is  true,"  he  said.  "I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow 
morning  if  I  may." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "if  this  had  not  happened,  if  I 
had  not  sent  for  you,  whether  you  meant  to  stay  away?" 

"I  meant  to,"  he  answered.  "Whether  I  should  have 
succeeded  or  not  I  cannot  say." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  Marquis  of  Ellingham  sat  in  the  almost  deserted 
smoking-room  of  his  club,  reclining  in  a  reflective 
attitude  in  one  of  the  most  comfortable  easy  chairs.  The 
evening  paper,  which  he  had  been  studying,  had  just 
fallen  from  his  knee.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ceiling. 
He  seemed  to  be  lost  in  thought.  A  man  came  in  and 
looked  around,  a  man  to  whom  Ellingham  nodded  at  once 
with  some  interest. 

"How  are  you,  Sir  James?"  he  said. 

The  great  lawyer  returned  his  friend's  greeting,  and 
drew  an  easy  chair  up  to  his  side.  "I  am  tired,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "I  have  been  down  to  the  adjourned  inquest  on 
this  extraordinary  murder  case.  You  read  about  it,  I 
suppose?" 

"I  have  just  glanced  it  through,"  Lord  Ellingham  ad- 
mitted. "So  far  as  I  can  see,  the  police  seem  to  have 
come  to  an  impasse." 

"Absolutely,"  the  lawyer  answered.  "They  returned 
the  only  verdict  they  could  have  returned  —  wilful  mur- 
der by  some  person  or  persons  unknown.  A  very  ex- 
traordinary case,"  he  continued,  pressing  the  tips  of  his 


PASSERS-BY  129 

fingers  together.  "Here  is  a  perfectly  respectable  young 
lady,  vouched  for  by  solicitors  of  the  highest  standing, 
occupying  an  apartment  in  a  very  reputable  neighborhood. 
She  dines  out,  and  in  her  absence  the  servants  admit  a 
visitor  whom  they  have  never  seen  before.  The  mistress 
returns  at  ten  o'clock.  Within  five  seconds  of  her  turning 
up  the  lights  in  the  room  her  shrieks  are  heard.  The 
servants  rush  in,  her  visitor  is  discovered  there  dead,  and 
according  to  the  evidence  he  must  have  been  dead  for  at 
least  an  hour.  The  man  came  alone,  the  servants  ad- 
mitted no  one  else  to  the  house,  the  elevator  man  brought 
no  one  else  up.  Yet  he  was  killed  in  that  room  an  hour 
before  the  return  of  its  mistress.  Find  me  a  puzzle  more 
complete  than  that,  if  you  can." 

"I  cannot,"  the  marquis  admitted.  "It  is  incompre- 
hensible." 

"The  police,"  the  lawyer  continued,  "seem  to  have  been 
afforded  every  opportunity.  The  young  lady  herself  be- 
haved with  the  utmost  discretion.  To  add  to  the  mystery, 
she  appears  to  have  known  nothing  of  the  man,  nor  was 
there  anything  in  his  pockets  which  afforded  the  slightest 
clue  to  his  identity.  He  was  probably  a  thief,  but  even 
that  does  not  give  us  a  clue.  Will  you  take  a  drink  with 
me,  Lord  Ellingham?" 

"With  pleasure,"  the  marquis  answered.  "I  was  about 
to  order  one  for  myself." 


130  PASSERS-BY 

The  servant  brought  them  whiskey  and  sodas.  The 
lawyer  tossed  his  off.  Lord  Ellingham  held  his  glass  for  a 
moment  before  him. 

"I  am  going  to  drink  a  little  toast  to  myself,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "I  am  going  to  drink  to  an  unknown  friend." 

He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  with  a  smile,  and  drank 
its  contents.  The  lawyer  rose  and  bade  him  good  night. 

"So  you  don't  think,"  Lord  Ellingham  asked,  "that 
the  police  have  any  idea  at  all  how  to  go  on  with  this 
affair?" 

"Not  the  slightest,"  Sir  James  answered.  "You  can 
take  it  from  me  that  they  have  n't  a  shadow  of  a  clue." 

Lord  Ellingham  left  the  club  a  few  minutes  later.  He 
walked  up  St.  James's  Street  with  his  coat  open,  enjoying 
the  fresh  night  breeze.  As  he  passed  the  corner  of  Park 
Place  a  sound  a  little  way  along  the  opening  arrested  his 
attention.  He  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  walked 
slowly  toward  it.  A  man,  a  little  huddled-up  creature, 
was  thumping  weary  music  from  the  worn  keys  of  a  little 
piano.  Lord  Ellingham  came  to  a  pause  before  the  in- 
strument and  looked  down.  He  was  right;  it  was  Am- 
brose who  sat  there  playing.  The  tune  came  to  a  sudden 
end.  Ambrose  looked  up  at  him  from  underneath  his 
closely  drawn  eyebrows.  "Well,"  he  asked  sharply, 
"what  do  you  want?" 

Ix>rd   Ellingham  smiled   good-humoredly.     "You   are 


PASSERS-BY  131 

not  overpolite,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  to  a  possible  patron. 
Supposing  I  say  that  I  stayed  to  listen  to  your  music  ?" 

"Then  you  would  lie,"  the  dwarf  answered,  "and  you 
know  it.  There  is  no  music  to  be  heard  here.  Again  I 
ask  you,  what  do  you  want?" 

"Only  the  pleasure  of  a  moment's  conversation  with 
you,"  Lord  Ellingham  answered. 

"Go  on,  then,"  Ambrose  said.  "I  cannot  escape.  You 
know  that.  Say  what  you  want  to.  At  least  I  am  not 
bound  to  answer." 

"I  have  known  people  in  your  position,"  the  marquis 
said  tolerantly,  "who  were  more  disposed  to  make  them- 
selves agreeable.  However,  we  will  let  that  go.  You  have 
lost  your  companion?" 

"I  have  lost  her,"  Ambrose  snarled,  "thanks  to  you." 

"Come,"  Lord  Ellingham  said,  "you  should  remember 
that  she  is  better  off  in  every  way  where  she  is.  I  can 
assure  you  that  I  did  not  seek  her  out.  She  came  to  me, 
and  after  she  had  found  me  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  go 
on  living  this  hand-to-mouth  existence.  You  took  good 
care  of  her,  I  believe.  If  you,  too,  wish  to  accept  my  help, 
you  can  have  it." 

Ambrose  closed  the  lid  of  his  piano  with  a  little  bang. 
"Is  that  what  you  stopped  to  say?"  he  asked. 

"Something  like  it,"  Lord  Ellingham  admitted.  "You 
have  not  given  me  much  opportunity  to  choose  my  words." 


132  PASSERS-BY 

"Then  you  can  be  off,"  the  dwarf  declared,  his  voice 
hoarse  with  either  anger  or  excitement.  "I  want  no  help 
from  you.  I  want  no  help  from  any  one." 

"But  consider,"  Lord  Ellingham  continued.  "You 
are,  I  believe,  honestly  attached  to  the  young  woman  who 
for  some  time  shared  your  fate.  In  altered  circumstances 
you  might  still  see  something  of  her,  might  still  be  useful 
to  her  perhaps." 

Ambrose  laughed  harshly.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "I  might 
be  useful  to  her !  Perhaps  even  now  I  may  be  that  You 
think  it  is  a  long  way  from  the  gutter  to  the  palace,  yet  I 
think  sometimes  that  we  who  crawl  about  the  face  of  the 
earth  see  and  hear  things.  We  can  be  useful  sometimes. 
You  yourself,  my  Lord  Ellingham,  may  need  help  at  any 
moment.  You  fancy  you  are  safe,  because  of  your  name 
and  your  wealth.  One  cannot  tell.  There  are  strange 
things  that  happen  sometimes.  And  listen,  milord.  There 
are  some  strange  people  in  London,  even  now." 

"You  seem,"  Lord  Ellingham  remarked,  "to  pick  up  a 
good  deal  of  information  in  your  comings  and  goings." 

"Why  not?"  the  dwarf  answered.  "Why  not?"  He 
grasped  the  handles  of  his  barrow.  Chicot  sprang  up  and 
held  out  his  hat. 

"Give  him  a  shilling,"  Ambrose  said  surlily.  "We 
have  had  a  bad  day,  and  I  would  not  have  him  go  hungry 
because  I  do  not  care  for  your  alms.  Now  go  your  way, 


PASSERS-BY  133 

and  let  me  go  mine.  We  do  no  good  talking  together.  I 
am  not  on  your  side." 

Lord  Ellingham  threw  a  sovereign  into  the  monkey's 
hat  and  turned  away  with  a  little  laugh.  "  You  are  hard  on 
me,"  he  said.  "  I  only  meant  to  do  you  a  service  if  I  could. 
If  you  change  your  mind  you  know  where  to  find  me." 

He  strolled  back  into  St.  James's  Street,  and  went  on 
his  way  homeward.  He  let  himself  in  with  a  latch-key, 
and  went  into  his  study.  There  were  several  private 
letters  upon  the  table,  through  which  he  glanced  hastily. 
The  last  one  was  addressed  to  him  in  a  typewritten  en- 
velope. He  tore  it  open  with  a  premonition  as  to  what  he 
would  find.  It  contained  a  single  sheet  of  paper  upon 
which  were  typed  these  words: 

Philip  Champion,  if  you  mean  war  we  too  can  strike.  If 
you  mean  peace  you  had  better  accept  this  last  summons.  Be 
seated  at  the  third  table  on  the  right-hand  side  from  the  en- 
trance, in  the  Cafe  Kulm,  at  four  o'clock  to-morrow,  Friday 
afternoon.  If  you  are  not  there,  there  will  be  one  in  England 
very  soon  whom  you  will  not  care  to  see. 

Lord  Ellingham  thrust  the  letter  into  his  coat  pocket 
and  took  up  the  evening  paper.  Again  in  the  agony 
column  he  read  with  a  smile  an  even  more  pressing  edition 
of  a  recent  advertisement  — Philip  Champion  is  urgently 
desired  to  communicate  with  his  friends. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

X^HRISTINE  and  Hannaway  were  walking  together 
V^J  in  Kensington  Gardens.  It  was  early  in  March 
and  the  air  was  soft  with  spring  sunshine.  There  were 
flaring  beds  of  yellow  crocuses  and  wonderful  borders  of 
hyacinths,  faintly  sweet.  The  chestnut-trees  were  in  bud ; 
here  and  there  a  flaky  blossom  was  creeping  out  from  its 
waxy  covering.  The  sky  was  blue  and  the  sun  was  soft. 
Christine  had  on  a  new  and  wonderfully  becoming  hat, 
which  her  companion  had  noticed  and  admired.  And 
yet  there  was  a  cloud. 

"Shall  we  sit  down?"  he  asked  gloomily. 

"Just  as  you  like,"  she  answered,  with  suspicious 
sweetness. 

They  chose  a  seat  from  which  they  could  look 
out  over  a  lake,  and  sat  there  in  silence  for  several 
moments,  watching  the  swans  and  listening  to  the 
birds  twittering  over  their  heads.  Then  Christine 
looked  down  at  the  tips  of  her  patent-leather  shoes 
and  frowned. 

"I  do  not  find  you  amusing  this  morning,  my  friend," 
she  remarked. 


PASSERS-BY  135 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  answered  stiffly.  "I  might  add  that  I 
have  also  found  you  disappointing." 

She  looked  around,  as  though  to  make  sure  that  they 
were  alone.    Then  she  turned  toward  him.    "  You  and  I,"  j 
she  said,  "  should  not  behave  like  children.    We  are  both  J 
of  us  too  old.     I,  at  any  rate,  have  seen  and  suffered  too 
much.    You  ask  me  some  things  which  it  is  not  possible 
for  me  to  tell  you." 

"I  maintain,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  our  friendship 
has  reached  a  stage  when  confidences  should  not  be 
impossible." 

She  kicked  a  pebble  away  impatiently.  "You  talk  to 
me,"  she  said,  "as  though  I  were  one  of  those  light-hearted 
puppets  of  girls  whom  you  meet  every  day  and  every  hour 
upon  the  streets,  in  the  park,  on  horseback  here,  and  at 
the  theater.  They  would  give  you  their  confidence  with- 
out a  doubt.  Think  what  it  would  come  to  —  a  few 
flirtations,  a  few  childish  escapades,  a  stolen  kiss,  perhaps, 
at  the  most.  You  know  very  well  that  it  is  not  like  that 
with  me." 

He  too  turned  his  head  and  looked  around.  "I  know," 
he  answered  softly.  "There  are  things  in  your  early  life, 
of  course,  which  even  now  it  were  better  to  speak  of  sel- 
dom, if  at  all.  You  see,  I  am  not  prejudiced.  I  know  that 
there  is  danger,  even  now,  in  treating  lightly  that  little 
corner  of  the  underground  world  where  I  first  met  you. 


136  PASSERS-BY 

But  there  are  some  things  which  I  feel  that  I  must  ask 

you." 

"I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,"  she  answered.  "I  am 
afraid  you  would  be  disappointed.  There  is  so  little  that 
I  can  tell." 

"I  will  not  ask  you  much,"  he  answered.  "I  do  feel, 
though,  that  since  we  are  friends  —  I  think,"  he  added, 
looking  thoughtfully  into  her  partly  averted  face,  "that 
we  may  call  ourselves  friends  —  you  might  surely  tell  me 
this.  What  is  the  connection  between  the  man  whom 
they  caught  that  night  —  and  who  is  now  in  prison  I 
suppose  —  Lord  Ellingham,  and  yourself?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  cannot  tell  you,"  she 
answered. 

He  looked  moodily  away  from  her.  "No  doubt,"  he 
said,  "your  claim  upon  Lord  Ellingham  is  a  good  one, 
but  you  must  remember  that  I  see  you  beholden  to  him 
for  everything.  Your  jewels  and  your  dresses,  your  house 
and  your  carriage,  all  come  to  you  from  him.  What  right 
has  he  to  give  you  these  things?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  she  answered. 

He  turned  toward  her.  His  hand  rested  for  a  moment 
upon  hers.  "Christine,"  he  said,  "supposing  that  there 
were  a  man  in  my  place  who  was  fond  of  you  ?  Supposing 
he  knew  only  what  I  know?" 

"Well?"  she  asked,  returning  his  gaze. 


PASSERS-BY  137 

"  Don't  you  realize,"  he  asked,  "  that  he  would  want  to 
know  a  little  more?" 

"I  cannot  tell,"  she  answered.  "Men  are  so  strange. 
I  know  little  of  them.  I  imagine  that  any  one  who  cared 
for  me  would  trust  me." 

"He  might  do  that,  Christine,"  he  continued,  "and  yet 
there  would  come  a  time  when  he  would  have  to  know 
these  things." 

"The  man  who  cared  for  me,"  she  said,  "would  have 
to  wait  until  that  time  came.  If  he  felt  that  he  could  not, 
it  would  be  better  for  him  to  go  and  seek  some  one  out  of 
the  every-day  world  of  every-day  people." 

There  was  a  somewhat  prolonged  silence.  Hannaway's 
face  was  clouded.  After  all,  he  was  a  fool,  he  told  himself. 
The  girl  was  too  clever.  She  would  tell  him  nothing. 

"I  am  answered,"  he  said  slowly.  "There  is  one  thing 
more." 

She  sighed.  "You  are  not  at  all  entertaining  this 
morning,"  she  said. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  he  answered.  "There  are  some 
things  which  we  must  speak  of.  Look  at  me,  Christine." 

She  turned  her  head  as  though  surprised,  either  at  his 
request  or  at  his  use  of  her  Christian  name.  Her  deli- 
cately marked  eyebrows  were  slightly  raised.  She  drew 
a  little  away  from  him. 

"I  want  to  ask  you,"  he  said,  "I  must  ask  you,  whether 


138  PASSERS-BY 

in  your  heart  you  have  any  secret  thought,  any  shadow  of 
an  idea,  as  to  who  it  was  who  entered  your  rooms  that 
night  and  killed  Anatoile  Devache?" 

She  sat  still  looking  at  him,  rigid  alike  in  features  and 
posture;  but  the  color  had  left  her  cheeks,  and  a  startled 
anger  smouldered  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  think,  you  believe,"  she  said,  in  a  moment  or  two, 
"that  I  had  something  to  do  with  that?" 

"  Not  for  one  moment ! "  he  exclaimed  hastily.  "  Do  not 
misunderstand  me.  Only,  that  man  died  by  the  hand  of 
some  one  who  knew  his  mission.  You  must  have  thought 
of  it.  You  know  more  than  I  know  about  the  coming  of 
this  man.  It  is  only  reasonable  to  suppose  that  you  may 
have  some  idea  as  to  who  it  was  that  killed  him." 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  He  would  have  detained  her,  but 
she  brushed  him  to  one  side. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  talk  to  you  any  longer,"  she  said,  a 
little  sadly.  "I  thought  you  were  my  friend.  I  believe 
now  that  you  are  just  making  use  of  me  to  try  to  find  out 
things.  They  thought  that  night,  you  remember,  that  you 
were  a  detective,  and  the  thought  nearly  cost  you  your 
life.  Perhaps  they  were  right.  I  cannot  tell.  Only,  I 
know  that  I  am  tired  of  your  questions,  always  questions. 
I  am  going  away.  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  again." 

He  caught  at  her  wrist.  "Christine,"  he  said,  "don't 
you  understand  ?  If  I  seem  inquisitive  or  curious,  it  is 


PASSERS-BY  139 

only  because  everything  about  you  interests  me.     Chris- 
tine, it  is  because  — 

She  had  sprang  away  from  him  with  the  swift  grace  of 
some  beautiful  young  animal.  With  dismay  he  watched 
her  flying  along  the  path.  Pursuit  would  only  have  been 
ridiculous.  He  stood  looking  after  her  until  she  was  out 
of  sight.  Not  once  did  she  turn  round.  He  saw  her  call 
a  hansom  and  drive  off.  Then  he  turned  and  crossed 
the  park  by  another  route,  toward  his  rooms. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  that  night  when  Ambrose  crawled 
homeward  across  the  bridge  and  down  the  narrow  street. 
Pennies  had  come  but  seldom.  There  were  few  who  cared 
to  hear  the  wheezy  tunes  of  his  wretched  instrument.  His 
feet  and  back  ached.  He  was  faint  and  nauseated  with 
hunger.  He  wheeled  his  little  barrow  into  the  entry  and 
came  slowly  along  toward  the  door  of  his  abode.  A  figure 
loomed  up  from  the  shadows  and  accosted  him.  He 
started  back,  and  his  hand  darted  like  lightning  to  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked  harshly.  "What  do  you 
want?" 

"Not  another  crack  on  the  head,  my  friend," 
Gilbert  Hannaway  said  grimly.  "I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

Ambrose  peered  into  his  face.     "It's  you,  is  it?"  he 


140  PASSERS-BY 

exclaimed.     "You  want  to  talk  with  me,  eh?     Well,  I 

have  nothing  to  say.     I  am  dumb." 

"You  will  change  your  mind  presently,"  Hannaway 
said.  "The  only  question  is  whether  you  will  come  with 
me  to  the  public  house  over  there  or  whether  I  shall  go 
with  you  to  your  rooms." 

Ambrose  eyed  the  lights  of  the  public  house,  and  a  sud- 
den sick  longing  assailed  him.  There  were  enough  pennies 
only  for  Chicot's  supper  and  his  own.  There  was  nothing 
left  for  drink,  and  there  were  long  hours  before  he  could 
turn  into  his  miserable  bed.  Hannaway  saw  his  hesita- 
tion and  led  the  way  across  the  street. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  that  is  sensible." 

Ambrose  made  no  answer  until  they  had  reached  the 
door  of  the  public  house.  A  pleasant  sense  of  warmth 
swept  out  to  them  through  the  swing-doors.  His  eyes 
glittered. 

"I  would  drink  with  you  to-night,"  he  muttered,  "  even 
though  you  were  Jean  the  Terrible." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

"  "Y  "T  THAT  will  you  take  to  drink  ?"  Hannaway  asked, 
V  T  turning  to  his  companion. 

"  I  will  have  brandy,"  was  the  prompt  reply  —  "  brandy 
and  hot  water.  I  want  bread,  too,  or  a  sandwich.  Any- 
thing to  eat.  There  is  a  seat  there  in  a  warm  corner.  If 
you  want  me  to  talk,  I  must  sit  down." 

He  led  the  way  down  the  room  to  a  corner  where  a  small 
table  stood  in  front  of  a  leather  couch.  As  he  walked  the 
mud  and  damp  oozed  from  his  broken  boots.  Hannaway 
was  aware  of  a  slit  in  his  coat,  buttoned  high  up  to  his 
throat  to  conceal  the  absence  of  a  collar.  In  the  darkness 
outside  he  had  been  a  dejected-looking  object  enough. 
Here,  in  the  brilliant  light,  he  seemed  little  more  than  a 
bundle  of  rags.  He  sank  down  upon  the  couch,  and  draw- 
ing Chicot  carefully  from  under  his  coat,  made  him  com- 
fortable in  the  far  corner. 

"In  a  moment  thou  shalt  eat,  my  Chicot,"  he  said. 
"They  are  bringing  food  for  you  and  drink  for  your 
master.  What,  are  you  tired?" 

Chicot  seemed,  indeed,  a  little  weary.  Nevertheless, 
when  a  great  dish  of  sandwiches  was  brought,  he  sat  up 


142  PASSERS-BY 

and  ate  with  avidity.  Ambrose  seized  one  and  tore  it 
to  pieces  with  the  air  of  a  wild  animal.  Somehow  or 
other,  of  the  two  the  monkey  seemed  to  have  the  more 
restraint. 

"I  eat  fast,"  Ambrose  declared  suddenly,  turning  to  his 
companion,  "because  I  am  on  fire  to  drink.  Until  I  have 
eaten  I  cannot  drink.  It  is  not  that  I  am  afraid  of  being 
drunk,  but  I  have  not  the  strength.  To-night  I  shall  drink 
and  drink  and  drink.  I  shall  talk  to  you,  and  I  shall  tell 
you  many  things.  You  will  go  away  and  think,  'He  is  a 
little  mad,  that  miserable  dwarf!'  It  is  true;  he  is  a 
little  mad." 

Hannaway  looked  at  his  companion,  and  the  more  he 
studied  his  face  the  greater  grew  his  curiosity.  For  he 
knew  that  underneath  were  different  things.  This  strange 
being  was  not  all  that  he  pretended  to  be. 

"It  is  harder  work  without  the  girl,"  he  said.  "You 
must  have  found  it  more  difficult  to  make  a  living  since 
you  lost  her." 

Ambrose  drank,  drank  steadily,  half  a  tumblerful  of 
brandy  and  water.  "Yes,"  he  said.  "We  have  lost  the 
girl.  We  have  lost  Christine,  Chicot  there  and  I.  Some 
meddling  jackanapes  sent  her  a  message,  and  she  went. 
She  is  a  rich  lady  now.  She  is  safe  from  the  rain  and  the 
cold,  safe  from  the  hunger  that  bites.  It  is  better." 

"Yes,  it  is  better,"  Hannaway  echoed.    "After  all,  she 


PASSERS-BY  143 

was  not  meant  for  hardships.  What  a  man  can  stand  is 
sometimes  death  to  a  woman." 

"  Death  I"  Ambrose  echoed.  "Yes,  it  is  that.  To-night 
I  shall  be  drunk.  I  can  feel  it  in  my  veins.  It  is  like  hot 
sweet  music.  Some  more  brandy!" 

"You  shall  have  all  the  brandy  you  can  drink,"  Hanna- 
way  answered;  "but  listen.  Remember  who  I  am.  I 
do  not  want  to  steal  upon  you  and  worm  secrets  away 
when  you  have  not  the  strength  to  guard  them.  I  am 
Gilbert  Hannaway,  you  know.  I  was  in  Paris  in  May, 
four  years  ago." 

"In  Paris,  four  years  ago,"  Ambrose  muttered. 

"More  than  that,"  Hannaway  continued.  "I  was  in 
the  Place  Noire.  I  was  in  the  fight.  I  lay  on  the  pave- 
ment with  a  bullet  in  my  leg  when  you  passed  down  the 
hill  wheeling  the  piano,  with  Christine  and  a  stranger  by 
your  side.  It  was  the  night  the  terrible  Jean  was  taken, 
the  night  that  only  one  man  escaped." 

"Ah!"  Ambrose  muttered.  "You  were  there!  Were 
you  a  spy?" 

"No,"  Hannaway  answered.  "But  I  will  be  frank  with 
you.  I  want  to  know  the  truth  about  all  that  happened 
there  that  night.  I  want  to  know  what  share  in  those 
things  you  and  Christine  had.  I  want  to  know  the  name 
of  the  man  who  escaped,  and  I  want  to  hear  something 
about  the  man  who  lies  in  prison." 


144  PASSERS-BY 

"  About  Jean  the  Terrible  ? "  Ambrose  muttered.   "  Ah  1 " 

A  waiter  brought  their  drinks  from  the  counter.  Am- 
brose emptied  his  tumbler  almost  at  a  draft. 

"A  larger  glass,"  he  demanded.  "Don't  be  afraid;  I 
can  stand  it.  Since  she  left  I  can  stand  anything.  It 
drowns  the  thought  a  little,  and  it  loosens  the  tongue.  If 
you  would  have  me  talk  you  must  see  that  I  drink." 

"You  understand,"  Hannaway  said,  "I  am  here  to  ask 
you  questions  —  to  pump  you,  if  you  like.  Drink,  if  you 
will,  but  remember  that." 

Ambrose  leaned  his  head,  with  its  mat  of  ragged  hair, 
back  against  the  cushion  at  the  top  of  the  couch.  He 
laughed  softly,  laughed  till  every  bone  in  his  body  seemed 
to  shake.  The  corners  of  his  mouth  quivered.  He  showed 
his  yellow  teeth.  His  eyes  were  still  dry  and  bright 

"Oh,  I  shall  talk!"  he  said.  "I  shall  answer  your 
questions.  Yesterday  or  the  day  before,  or  perhaps  to- 
morrow, I  would  sooner  have  struck  you  than  drank  with 
you.  To-night  I  am  in  the  mood.  I  tell  you  that  it  is  in 
my  blood.  But  answer  me  one  question  first" 

"  Go  ahead,"  Hannaway  said. 

"  What  are  you  ?  Detective  ?  Philanthropist  ?  Or  are 
you  simply  a  passer-by  —  one  who  loves  to  gaze  into  the 
strange  corners  of  the  world?" 

"Call  me  a  passer-by,"  Hannaway  answered.  "I  am 
certainly  not  a  detective,  nor  can  I  claim  to  be  a  philan- 


PASSERS-BY  145 

thropist.  But  I  love  to  discover  the  meanings  of  things 
which  puzzle  me.  This  morning  I  talked  with  Christine, 
but  she  would  tell  me  nothing." 

Again  Ambrose  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  laughed. 
His  long  chin  protruded.  He  .closed  his  eyes.  His  clenched 
fingers  were  entwined.  "She  would  tell  you  nothing,"  he 
muttered.  "  No,  I  know  that  she  would  tell  you  nothing ! " 

"I  come,  then,  to  you,"  Hannaway  said,  "and  if  you  fail 
me  I  shall  go  to  Lord  Ellingham." 

Slowly  the  dwarf  opened  his  eyes.  "You  will  go  to 
Lord  Ellingham?"  he  repeated. 

"I  will,"  Hannaway  answered.  "He  was  there  that 
night,  you  know.  He,  too,  was  one  of  the  Black  Foxes." 

"A  passer-by!"  Ambrose  muttered  to  himself,  as  he 
held  up  his  freshly  filled  tumbler  to  the  light.  "I  drink 
to  them  all.  I  drink  to  the  passers-by,  to  those  who  stop 
and  bend  over  and  are  curious,  to  those  who  walk  on,  to 
those  who  walk  on  and  come  back !  The  girl,  man?"  he 
asked  suddenly.  "What  is  she  to  you?  Chris  tine  1 
Christine ! "  he  repeated,  his  voice  suddenly  soft. 

"She  is  nothing  to  me,"  Hannaway  answered  sadly. 
"This  morning  I  spoke  to  her  carefully  of  the  past.  She 
sent  me  away." 

"The  past!"  Ambrose  muttered.  "Ah,  I  could  tell  you 
stories  of  that !  I  could  tell  you  of  the  days  when  I  played 

the  organ  in  the  little  church,  the  church  set  among  the 

10 


146  PASSERS-BY 

meadows,  meadows  yellow  with  buttercups  and  deep  mari- 
golds. There  was  the  river,  too  —  broad  and  slow,  clear 
as  wine.  She  sat  on  the  bank,  and  the  music  came  through 
the  open  doors,  and  presently  she  would  leave  off  picking 
the  buttercups,  she  would  look  no  longer  into  the  river  bed. 
She  would  come  stealing  up  the  avenue  of  poplar  trees,  up 
onto  the  stone  flags,  into  the  cool  church,  up  between  the 
old  oak  pews,  to  where  I  sat  and  played  for  her.  I  was  not 
like  this.  She  was  not  afraid  to  touch  me  then.  I  have 
felt  her  arms  around  my  neck,  I  have  felt  her  cheek  close 
to  mine,  while  the  music  grew  and  grew,  a  great  thing,  a 
live  thing." 

Hannaway  was  silent.  Something  strange  seemed  to 
have  come  over  his  companion.  He  talked  like  a  man  who 
has  lost  all  count  of  place  or  time.  Yet  when  he  paused  he 
drank,  and  when  he  had  emptied  his  tumbler  he  held  it 
out  toward  the  busy  waiter. 

"  You  don't  believe  me ! "  he  cried,  almost  fiercely.  "  You 
don't  believe,  perhaps,  that  I  was  not  always  like  this.  Go 
to  Annonay,  then.  Ask  them  there.  Ask  them  of  Ambrose 
Drake  of  Annonay.  Ask  them  to  tell  you  of  the  day  - 
Bah !  These  things  are  not  for  you.  I  forgot.  You  are 
paying  for  the  brandy.  It  is  of  Christine  and  the  Black 
Foxes  that  I  must  talk.  The  man  is  a  long  time  fetching 
the  brandy.  If  I  may  not  drink  I  will  say  no  more." 

"  He  is  coming,"  Hannaway  answered. 


PASSERS-BY  147 

"He  is  here,"  Ambrose  declared,  drawing  his  glass 
toward  him  with  a  little  gulp  of  content.  "  When  I  drink 
I  remember.  No,"  he  added,  leaning  back  once  more  and 
half  closing  his  eyes,  "  it  is  not  memory ;  it  is  sight.  The 
things  of  which  I  speak  I  see.  I  see  Christine  a  child. 
She  walked  with  me  then  hand  in  hand  through  the  fields. 
I  was  only  the  son  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  but  they 
trusted  me.  Sometimes  they  would  have  me  up  at  the 
house  to  play  for  them.  I  see  Christine  sitting  in  the  open 
window.  I  can  smell  the  lemon  trees,  the  scent  of  the 
flowering  shrubs,  the  scent  of  the  drooping  roses,  great 
wax  candles  upon  the  piano,  great  wax  candles  in  the  bare 
room.  Poor  as  rats,  all  of  them,  but  proud.  The  seigneur 
died.  Christine  and  her  mother  went  to  Paris.  I  remem- 
ber that  day.  I  worked  in  the  fields.  I  saw  the  carriage 
go  by,  and  I  fell  upon  my  face.  I  can  smell  the  brown 
earth,  freshly  turned  by  the  plow.  I  was  there  praying, 
poor  fool !  Give  me  some  cigarettes.  Give  me  something 
to  smoke  or  I  will  not  go  on." 

Hannaway  took  out  his  gold  case  and  emptied  its  con- 
tents upon  the  table.  Ambrose  took  a  cigarette  and  lit  it, 
puffing  out  the  blue  smoke  without  sign  of  pleasure  or  ap- 
preciation. Hannaway  watched  the  long  fingers  curiously. 
They  were  well  shaped.  They  had  the  appearance  of  hav- 
ing once  been  well  cared  for.  On  the  little  finger  was  stiU 
the  mark  where  a  ring  had  been. 


148  PASSERS-BY 

"To  Paris,"  Ambrose  continued,  still  talking  as  though 
to  himself,  "  to  Paris,  of  course,  and  after  them  I.  It  was 
there  that  I  starved.  Oh,  the  long  days  and  the  nights 
when  I  craved  for  food !  I  was  young  then.  I  had  not 
learned  that  brandy  is  better,  much  better." 

He  banged  his  empty  tumbler  upon  the  table.  The 
waiter  came  and  looked  at  him  curiously.  His  hand  was 
perfectly  steady.  His  eyes,  for  he  had  suddenly  opened 
them,  were  bright  and  clear. 

"Some  brandy,  fellow!"  he  ordered.  "Serve  me  at 
once.  My  friend  here  is  impatient." 

"In  a  moment,  sir,"  the  waiter  declared,  hurrying 
away. 

"You're  sure  that  you're  not  drinking  too  much?" 
Hannaway  asked  bluntly. 

"When  I  drink,  I  drink,"  Ambrose  muttered  fiercely. 
"When  I  have  finished,  I  have  finished.  Look  at  my 
hand.  It  is  as  steady  as  yours.  Does  my  voice  falter? 
No !  I  will  tell  you  where  the  brandy  goes.  It  goes  to  the 
brain.  I  see  again.  I  feel  again.  I  remember.  I  live,  if 
it  be  only  among  the  shadows.  Too  much,  indeed !  But 
you  do  not  understand.  Ah ! " 

He  held  out  his  hand.  His  tumbler  was  back  again, 
well  filled.  He  half  emptied  it  before  he  set  it  down. 

"So  I  searched  for  them  through  the  streets  of  Paris," 
he  went  on,  "  from  one  quarter  to  another.  Paris  was  wild 


PASSERS-BY  149 

in  those  days.  I  saw  a  man  killed  one  night.  He  was  an 
Italian,  and  I  carried  him,  dying,  to  his  lodging-house. 
He  gave  me  Chicot;  Chicot,  my  friend." 

He  stroked  the  monkey  thoughtfully  with  one  hand. 
Chicot,  who  had  eaten  many  sandwiches,  opened  one  eye 
and  went  to  sleep  again. 

"By  night  and  by  day  I  searched,"  Drake  went  on. 
"When  I  found  them  it  was  too  late.  Trouble  had  come. 
Trouble  was  with  them  all  the  time.  Madame  was  dead, 
and  Christine  dwelt  in  the  gray  house  in  the  Place  Noire, 
where  all  the  time  men  whom  Paris  called  the  Black 
Foxes  were  creeping  in  and  out." 

"What  was  she  doing  there?"  Hannaway  asked 
breathlessly. 

"Trouble,  aye,  more  than  trouble!"  Ambrose  con- 
tinued. "We  plunged  deep  there.  It  came  at  last,  the 
crash.  You  were  there  that  night.  Twenty  gendarmes 
it  took  to  storm  that  house.  I  remember  you  lay  in  the 
gutter  when  I  ran  past  you  with  my  piano.  They  let  me  go. 
They  thought  I  was  a  frightened  passer-by." 

"Who  was  the  man  in  workman's  clothes  who  escaped 
with  you?"  Hannaway  asked. 

The  barman  crossed  the  room  toward  them.  "Time, 
gentlemen,  please,"  he  cried. 

A  policeman  put  his  head  in  at  the  door.  "All  out,  if 
you  please,"  he  ordered. 


150  PASSERS-BY 

Ambrose  slid  from  the  shiny  seat  onto  the  floor.  He 
took  Chicot  under  his  arm  and  caught  up  his  hat.  "  It  is 
over,"  he  cried.  "I  can  see  no  more.  I  can  remember 
no  more.  We  go  to  sleep,  Chicot  and  I.  Good  night ! " 

Hannaway  would  have  pressed  out  by  his  side,  but  he 
thrust  him  away. 

"It  is  finished,"  he  declared  emphatically.  "When  I 
cease  to  drink  my  brain  is  cloudy.  I  can  remember 
nothing." 

He  shot  out  through  the  door  and  vanished  round  the 
corner.  Hannaway  drew  a  long  breath  and  buttoned  up 
his  coat.  He  looked  behind  at  the  public  house,  now  al- 
most empty,  and  he  looked  down  the  dark  street  where 
Ambrose  had  vanished.  He  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
passed  into  a  different  atmosphere.  He  realized  now,  for 
the  first  time,  how  absorbed  he  had  been  in  those  quickly 
spoken,  tense  sentences.  Slowly  and  reluctantly  he  turned 
away  and  crossed  the  bridge. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TWO  men,  ill  dressed,  unshaven,  obviously  foreigners, 
sat  at  a  small  table  in  the  Cafe*  Kulm.  The  place 
was  not  a  hundred  yards  from  Leicester  Square,  but  to  all 
effects,  and  certainly  to  all  appearances,  it  was  very  much 
on  the  other  side  of  the  channel.  The  atmosphere  was 
dense  with  the  fumes  of  tobacco  and  the  odor  of  many 
dinners.  The  mirrors  which  once  decorated  the  walls  were 
cracked  and  greasy.  The  cloths  which  covered  half  of  the 
tables  at  the  restaurant  end  of  the  room  were  remarkable 
neither  for  their  cleanliness  nor  for  their  quality.  Near 
the  door  the  tables  were  marble  topped,  beringed  with  the 
stains  of  coffee  and  strange  drinks.  One  heard  scarcely  a 
word  of  English.  The  two  men,  who  were  drinking  ab- 
sinthe together,  were  talking  French. 

It  was  a  quiet  time  of  the  day,  and,  save  for  one  other 
visitor,  the  few  tables  consecrated  to  the  guest  who  came 
only  to  drink  were  unoccupied.  The  other  visitor  was 
Ambrose  Drake.  He  sat  with  a  glass  of  brandy  before 
him,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  bent  forward.  Chicot  was 
asleep  in  his  pocket.  Outside,  the  piano  had  found  tem- 
porary shelter  in  a  covered  entry.  The  rain  came  down  in 


152  PASSERS-BY 

a  gentle  but  sullen  downpour.  He  had  not  a  stitch  of 
dry  clothing  upon  him.  No  wonder  that  he  seemed  drowsy, 
that  the  fumes  of  the  brandy  which  he  was  drinking  had 
mounted  to  his  brain. 

One  of  the  two  men  pointed  to  him.  They  talked  to- 
gether in  French,  quickly,  and  with  many  gestures. 

"The  creature  there,"  he  said,  "he  reminds  one,  eh, 
of  the  hunchback  who  stole  off  with  the  girl  that  night, 
and  —  and  some  one  else." 

The  other  man  glanced  across  at  Ambrose  and  shook 
his  head.  "Miracles  do  not  happen,  my  friend,"  he  said. 
"Besides,  the  little  creature  there  is  smaller  and  older. 
See,  he  has  drunk  too  much.  He  sleeps." 

The  man  who  had  spoken  first,  Marcel  they  called  him, 
looked  uneasily  around.  "When  one  is  as  I  am,"  he 
said  hoarsely,  "one  fears  the  very  shadows.  One  sees 
spies  everywhere.  Listen,  Pierre.  You  saw  the  Figaro 
this  morning?" 

Pierre,  gray-headed,  obese,  with  the  puckered  face  and 
sallow  complexion  of  a  dram-drinker,  nodded  his  head. 
"Yes,"  he  said.  "The  man  is  dead.  You  struck  home, 
Marcel." 

Marcel  wiped  his  forehead  with  his  hand.  His  hair 
was  shaven  close  to  his  head.  He  was  tall  and  of  tre- 
mendous physique,  but  he  was  also  by  far  the  more  for- 
bidding looking  of  the  two.  His  face  had  the  look  of  a 


PASSERS-BY  153 

hunted  wild  animal.  His  eyes  were  furtive  and  uneasy. 
He  was  never  altogether  at  rest. 

"What  could  I  do?"  he  muttered.  "Think  you,  my 
friend.  For  five  years  I  had  suffered  and  starved.  No 
absinthe,  no  brandy,  coffee  fit  for  the  pigs,  tobacco  —  a 
whiff  now  and  then,  no  more.  I,  my  friend,  who  loved 
always  the  best,  who  loved  the  red  wine,  who  smoked 
night  and  day !  And  before  me  were  another  ten  years. 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  struck?" 

Pierre  curled  his  mustache  upward,  showing  a  wide, 
cruel  mouth.  His  eyes  were  close  together,  his  cheek- 
bones high.  He  was  not  pleasant  to  look  at. 

"You  were  right,  Marcel,"  he  muttered.  "A  man 
like  you  must  live.  Now  that  you  are  here  you  will  be 
safe.  Here  we  have  more  hiding-places  than  in  Paris 
itself." 

"Aye,  safe!"  Marcel  muttered.  "They  will  not  find 
me  here,  I  am  sure  of  that.  But  there  is  the  money.  One 
must  live !  We  must  all  live.  I  dined  ill  last  night.  Un- 
less one  has  fortune  I  shall  not  dine  at  all  to-night.  Pierre, 
a  blow  must  be  struck." 

Pierre  held  out  the  palms  of  his  hands.  "Anatoile," 
he  said,  "came  to  strike  that  blow.  He  is  dead,  and  the 
hand  that  struck  him  might  have  come  from  the  clouds. 
Is  it  a  wonder  that  one  fears  ?  " 

Marcel  clenched  both  his  hands.     He  leaned  over  the 


154  .  PASSERS-BY 

little  round  table,  and  his  face  was  like  the  face  of  a  devil. 
"Nevertheless,"  he  declared,  "something  must  be  done, 
and  that  quickly.  All  our  money  has  gone.  He  has  not 
obeyed  this,  our  last  summons.  Who  was  he,  I  ask?  A 
stranger,  a  newcomer,  to  make  fools  of  us  all,  of  us,  my 
friend,  who  had  risked  our  lives,  and  more  than  our 
lives,  to  get  together  that  money!  Was  there  ever  such 
treachery?  The  disguise  was  there  for  me.  The  hunch- 
back and  the  girl  were  waiting  that  my  escape  might  be 
the  easier.  The  money  that  meant  fortune  to  all  of  us 
was  there,  too." 

"He  shall  share  it,"  Pierre  muttered.  "He  must  be 
made  to  share  it." 

Marcel  struck  the  table  with  his  hand.  "  Which  of  us," 
he  muttered,  "shall  go  and  tell  him  so?" 

Ambrose  rose  suddenly  from  his  seat.  He  dragged  the 
chair  along  with  him  and  placed  it  by  Marcel's  side. 
"I,"  he  answered,  striking  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

A  bomb  thrown  in  their  midst  would  have  astonished 
them  less.  They  shrank  back,  looking  at  him  with  terror- 
stricken  faces.  Pierre's  hand  went  to  his  waistband, 
Marcel's  to  his  hip  pocket.  It  was  plain  what  manner  of 
man  these  were ;  they  carried  knives  1 

"You  need  not  be  alarmed,"  Ambrose  said  coolly. 
"You  did  not  recognize  me  at  first,  but  I  knew  you  both 
from  the  moment  you  entered.  Don't  you  remember  the 


PASSERS-BY  ,155 

cripple  and  his  piano  and  the  monkey?  Here  am  I,  and 
here,"  he  added,  patting  his  pocket,  "is  Chicot.  We 
have  sworn  the  oath.  Have  no  fear." 

Their  courage  came  back.  They  even  grasped  him 
by  the  hand.  Ambrose  called  a  waiter. 

"I  have  a  few  shillings,"  he  said.    "We  will  drink." 

They  gave  their  orders.  Ambrose  leaned  over  the 
table  and  patted  Marcel  on  the  back. 

"You  did  well,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "to  escape.  It 
was  bravely  done.  You  stabbed  him  in  the  back,  eh, 
that  warder,  and  ran  ?  But  it  was  a  feat !  It  was  worthy 
of  the  Black  Fox!" 

Marcel  looked  uneasily  around.  "We  do  not  speak  of 
it,"  he  said.  "One  never  knows  who  may  listen.  Tell 
us  now  of  yourself.  Tell  us  what  has  become  of  you  since 
that  night." 

The  face  of  the  dwarf  was  set  and  grim.  His  underlip 
protruded.  His  eyes  rolled  as  he  spoke.  "Of  myself!" 
he  muttered.  "There  is  not  much  to  tell.  We  fled  that 
night,  the  girl  and  I,  and  the  man  —  whom  all  the  time 
we  thought  was  you,  Vicomte,"  he  added,  under  his 
breath.  "On  the  Boulevard  we  separated.  The  man 
who  was  with  us,  he  took  the  piano.  The  girl  went  to 
some  lodgings  in  a  quiet  part.  I  went  to  St.  Denis  and 
stayed  there  for  two  days.  When  I  came  back  to  Paris 
the  piano  was  left  where  he  had  promised.  I  found 


156  PASSERS-BY 

Christine,  but  the  man  who  had  shared  our  flight 
was  gone.  Afterward  we  seemed  likely  to  starve.  We 
went  in  search  of  him.  From  town  to  town  we  went, 
from  country  to  country.  Here  in  London  we  found 
him." 

"You  found  him?"  they  both  muttered  in  unison. 
"What  then?" 

"He  took  the  girl  away,"  Ambrose  muttered.  "He 
took  her  away  from  me.  Chicot  and  I  have  been  alone 
for  months." 

They  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  His  clothes  were  in 
an  evil  state,  his  beard  untrimmed.  He  was  unwashed, 
unkempt. 

"You  are  poor,  you?  You  have  no  money?"  Marcel 
demanded. 

Ambrose  laughed  harshly.  "Look  at  me!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "You  ask  a  question  like  that !  Bah !" 

For  the  moment  they  forgot  his  presence.  They  ex- 
changed swift  glances,  swift,  comprehending  glances. 

"He  has  given  you  no  money,  friend?"  Pierre  asked 
softly. 

"The  coin  which  we  have  just  spent  was  his,"  Ambrose 
answered.  "It  is  all  that  I  have  ever  had  from  him,  and 
he  took  Christine  from  me." 

Marcel  wet  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  "Look 
here,  friend,"  he  said,  "with  you  it  is  different,  of  course, 


PASSERS-BY  157 

but  you  know  who  I  am.    You  know  how  I  have  suffered, 
and  for  what." 

Ambrose  nodded.     "I  know,"  he  said. 

"Think  you,"  Marcel  continued,  "that  I  have  done 
it  for  nothing?  Five  years  of  the  life  that  slaves  lead! 
Five  years  of  the  life  which  he  might  have  led  if  he  had 
not  stolen  my  disguise  and  escaped  in  my  place!  He  is 
rich,  you  say?" 

"Aye!"  Ambrose  answered.  "He  has  money  to  throw 
away  with  both  hands,  gold  to  scatter  in  the  streets  if  he 
wills,  gold  to  load  his  wife  with  jewels,  to  buy  horses  and 
carriages  and  automobiles.  He  lives  in  a  palace,  an  army 
of  servants  wait  upon  him.  It  is  a  contrast,  eh,  Marcel  ? 
A  contrast,  is  it  not?" 

"He  shall  pay  for  it,"  Marcel  muttered. 

"Why  not  go  to  him?"  Ambrose  asked.  "Why  not 
beard  him  there  and  say:  'I  am  Marcel,  and  I  come  to 
you  from  a  French  prison.  You  are  — '" 

They  stopped  him. 

"Mention  no  names,"  Marcel  said  uneasily.  "This  is 
the  region  of  spies.  One  must  not  be  overheard.  I  will 
not  go  to  him.  He  is  too  clever.  He  might  even  give  me 
up  to  the  police.  We  shall  accept  your  offer,  my  friend. 
It  is  you  who  shall  go.  He  will  not  suspect  that  you  come 
from  us." 

"Listen,"  Pierre  said.    "We  have  summoned  him  here 


158  PASSERS-BY 

and  he  did  not  come.  We  have  summoned  him  in  many 
different  ways.  The  result  has  been  always  the  same  — 
silence.  He  makes  no  move.  If  he  feels  fear  he  shows  no 
sign  of  it." 

"What  shall  I  say  to  him?"  Ambrose  asked. 

Marcel  threw  out  his  hands.  They  were  white  and 
shapely.  Marcel,  indeed,  in  other  days,  had  been  an 
aristocrat. 

"We  must  have  money,"  he  said,  "money!  Who  is 
he  to  live  in  the  great  places,  while  I  have  toiled  among 
the  felons  ?  We  must  have  money,  or  he  shall  be  sent  to 
take  my  place  there." 

"How  much?"  Ambrose  asked. 

"A  great  deal,"  Marcel  declared.  "We  shall  not  be 
content  with  a  trifle,  Pierre  here  and  myself.  We  have 
had  enough  of  suffering.  We  want  to  spend,  spend,  spend. 
We  must  have  money,  and  more  money,  and  more  money, 
but  there  must  be  a  beginning.  I  have  not  a  louis.  There 
is  not  a  louis  between  us.  I  need  clothes  and  linen.  I 
am  weak  from  prison.  I  need  food  and  wine.  Mon  Dieu! 
To  feel  myself  once  more  a  gentleman !  Then  we  will 
talk,  he  and  I.  We  will  talk,  indeed." 

Ambrose  nodded.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  will  go  to 
him.  He  shall  find  the  money.  WTiy  not  ?  Christine  has 
horses  and  carriages,  fine  clothes  and  servants." 

"From  him?"  Pierre  asked. 


PASSERS-BY  159 

"From  him,"  Ambrose  answered. 

Pierre  and  Marcel  looked  at  each  other  uneasily.  The 
same  thought  was  in  their  minds. 

"But  Anatoile?"  Pierre  whispered. 

Ambrose  smiled.  "There  are  mysteries,"  he  said, 
"even  on  this  side  of  the  channel.  In  Paris  one  heard  of 
such  things,  and  one  nodded  one's  head ;  one  understood. 
Here,  too,  strange  things  may  happen." 

"Listen,"  Pierre  whispered,  leaning  across  the  table. 
"Anatoile  was  our  comrade.  He  was  our  messenger. 
How  came  he  to  his  death?" 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "One  cannot  tell,"  he  said. 
"The  hand  that  struck  him  might  have  come  from  the 
clouds." 

The  two  men  again  looked  at  each  other  uneasily.  The 
face  of  Marcel  was  gray  with  fear. 

"We  will  not  talk  of  Anatoile,"  he  declared.  "My 
nerves  are  not  what  they  were." 

"As  you  will,"  Ambrose  answered.  "To-morrow  I 
will  go  to  see  the  person  we  have  spoken  of.  At  five 
o'clock  I  come  here." 

He  slouched  out.  The  rain  was  over.  He  set  Chicot 
on  the  top  of  the  little  piano  and  started  on  his  weary 
trudge. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

HRISTINE  and  Lord  Ellingham  were  lunching  to- 
gather  at  a  fashionable  West  End  restaurant.  The 
marquis  bowed  to  some  acquaintances  a  little  coldly,  and 
turned  back  to  Christine. 

"  My  dear  child,"  he  said,  "do  not  think  that  I  too  have 
not  some  anxieties  on  your  account.  I  admit  that  the 
situation  is  very  difficult.  Certain  things  I  am  able  to 
give  you.  Certain  other  things  I  cannot  give  you.  I  only 
wish  that  it  were  possible." 

Christine  looked  across  the  table  at  him  with  weary, 
questioning  eyes.  She  was  as  perfectly  dressed  as  any 
woman  in  the  room.  Excellent  taste,  a  first-class  milliner, 
and  the  natural  advantages  of  her  slim,  sinuous  figure 
combined  to  invest  her  with  a  style  which  made  her,  in 
all  that  select  gathering,  perhaps,  the  most  notable  figure. 
She  altogether  lacked,  however,  any  expression  of  con- 
tentment with  herself  or  her  surroundings.  Her  eyes 
were  tired,  her  lips  a  little  tremulous.  She  had  found  the 
material  things  for  which  she  craved,  and  she  was  finding, 
also,  that  they  left  her  only  a  looker-on  at  the  life  which 
she  longed  to  enter.  At  that  moment  she  was  particu- 


PASSERS-BY  161 

larly  depressed.  Gilbert  Hannaway  had  entered  the 
room  a  few  minutes  before,  and  after  a  glance  at  her  com- 
panion had  passed  on  with  a  stiff  bow  and  a  look  in  his 
face  which  she  bitterly  resented. 

"I  can  hire  you  a  chaperon,  of  course,"  Lord  Ellingham 
said.  "I  dare  say  my  lawyers  could  find  one  who  would 
be  able  to  introduce  you  more  or  less  into  society.  But 
you  yourself  know  whether  this  would  be  wise.  There 
are  certain  things  which  we  cannot  ignore.  They  lie  too 
close  behind  us." 

She  toyed  with  her  food  and  sipped  her  wine.  "A  few 
months  ago,"  she  said,  "this  would  have  seemed  paradise 
to  me,  to  be  sitting  here  in  the  sort  of  clothes  I  wanted  to 
wear,  in  the  sort  of  place  I  wanted  to  be  in.  Life  is  very 
disappointing." 

"We  all  find  it  so,"  he  answered  softly.  "For  ten 
years  of  my  life  I  myself  was  penniless,  almost  an  ad- 
venturer. All  my  good  fortune  came  too  late.  I  too  have 
the  shadows  always  around  me.  I  sometimes  rise  in  the 
morning  afraid  to  look  at  my  letters,  afraid  to  step  out 
into  the  streets.  At  night  I  am  only  thankful  because 
another  day  has  passed  without  disaster." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  It  was  not  often  that  he 
spoke  to  her  so  intimately.  "You  are  a  brave  man,"  she 
said.  "No  one  would  fancy  that  you  were  afraid." 

He  laughed  quietly.    "We  know  very  little,  after  all," 


11 


162  PASSERS-BY 

he  said,  "of  the  people  who  jostle  through  life  by  our 
sides.  We  see  them  with  smiling  faces,  making  a  brave 
show  to  the  world.  We  know  little  of  their  inner  lives, 
of  their  secret  troubles,  of  the  shadows  which  sometimes 
make  life  seem  little  better  than  a  nightmare.  There  are 
others  besides  myself  who  walk  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice." 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  whether  he  —  you 
know  who  I  mean  —  will  dare  to  come  to  England." 

"Honestly,"  the  marquis  answered,  "I  believe  it  is  the 
one  place  where  he  would  be  surest  of  refuge.  For  one 
thing,  he  would  want  to  find  me  out,  and  for  another,  it 
is  said  that  there  are  districts  back  there  in  Soho  where 
the  foreign  criminal  is  safer  than  anywhere  else  in  Europe. 
Pierre  is  in  London,  I  know.  He  summoned  me  to  meet 
him  at  some  little  cafe"  last  night." 

"You  did  not  go?"  she  asked. 

"I  did  not  go,"  he  answered.  "If  I  once  recognized 
the  existence  of  any  of  these  men  it  would  be  the  begin- 
ning of  the  end.  There  would  be  not  one  of  them  to  satisfy, 
but  fifty.  One  can  make  terms  with  an  individual,  but 
scarcely  with  a  whole  community.  And  some  day,"  he 
added,  "there  will  be  Marcel  to  deal  with,  Marcel  fresh 
from  prison,  his  blood  boiling  with  anger,  his  fingers  itch- 
ing to  be  at  my  throat.  If  ever  they  do  release  him  he 
will  tell  the  whole  truth,  whatever  happens  to  him.  Ana- 
toile  was  dangerous.  Marcel  free  will  be  worse.  But," 


PASSERS-BY  163 

he  added,  in  a  lighter  tone,  "we  have  had  enough  of  this 
serious  talk.  How  does  the  new  automobile  go  ?" 

"Beautifully,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  sigh.  "I 
have  been  out  in  it  every  day.  If  I  were  only  not  so 
lonely!" 

"Why  does  that  young  man,"  Lord  Ellingham  asked, 
"look  at  you  so  strangely?  His  face  somehow  seems 
familiar  to  me." 

Christine  half  turned  in  her  seat.  Then  she  looked 
down  upon  her  plate.  "You  know  him,  I  think,"  she 
said.  "It  is  Mr.  Gilbert  Hannaway." 

"Of  course,"  Lord  Ellingham  remarked.  "I  remember 
him  quite  well.  He  was  in  Paris,  was  he  not,  on  the  night 
of  the  great  rout  ?  He  has  been  to  see  me  since.  He  is  a 
little  interested,  I  think,  in  our  affairs.  That  does  not 
explain,  however,  why  he  should  look  at  you  as  though 
you  were  providing  him  with  some  cause  for  personal 
offense. ' 

"I  have  seen  him  once  or  twice,"  Christine  said  slowly. 
"He  was  inclined  to  be  rather  nice  to  me.  Then  he  said 
•rome  things  which  I  could  not  tolerate." 

"You  quarreled?" 

She  nodded.  "I  suppose  so,"  she  answered.  "He  has 
not  been  to  see  me  since.  No  one  has  been  to  see  me  for 
all  these  weeks  —  not  since  those  awful  reporters  left  off 
coming  to  ask  me  about  Anatoile.  Do  you  know,"  she 


164  PASSERS-BY 

went  on,  leaning  across  the  table,  "I  do  not  think  that  I 
can  stand  it  any  longer.  Life  seems  to  come  so  near,  and 
yet  to  stay  so  far  away.  Some  nights  I  feel  like  putting  on 
my  best  clothes  and  going  to  the  theatres  or  the  music- 
halls,  or  even  out  into  the  streets,  and  saying  to  the  people 
who  look  at  me,  'Come  and  talk  to  me  if  you  will.'  I 
must  talk  to  some  one  or  I  shall  go  mad.  I  see  crowds 
of  people  every  day,  nice-looking  people,  who  look  as 
though  they  would  like  to  talk  to  me.  Some  day  I  shall 
single  one  of  them  out  and  carry  him  off." 

Lord  Ellingham  looked  grave. 

"It  is  a  dangerous  way  to  make  friends,"  he  said, 
"especially  in  London." 

"Or,"  she  went  on,  "I  feel  sometimes  that  I  could 
throw  off  all  my  beautiful  clothes,  and  rush  out  into  the 
streets  and  search  for  Ambrose  and  Chicot.  Many  people 
spoke  to  us  when  we  tramped  the  streets  and  sang  for 
pennies,  more  people  than  speak  to  me  now." 

They  left  the  restaurant  a  few  moments  later.  Lord 
Ellingham  handed  her  into  the  smart  little  automobile 
which  was  waiting. 

"You  cannot  come  a  little  way  with  me?"  she  asked 
timidly. 

"You  may  drop  me  at  the  Foreign  Office,  if  you  will," 
he  answered.  "I  have  a  busy  afternoon.  Besides,  you 
must  remember,"  he  added,  taking  his  place  by  her  side, 


PASSERS-BY  165 

"  that  it  is  not  well  for  either  you  or  me  that  we  are  seen 
too  much  together." 

The  short  drive  passed  almost  in  silence. 

"When  can  you  take  me  out  again?"  Christine  asked, 
as  they  parted. 

"Not  for  a  week,  at  least,"  he  answered.  "I  will  try  to 
come  round  and  see  you,  however,  before  then." 

Christine  was  whirled  away  homeward.  At  the  corner 
of  Piccadilly,  however,  there  was  a  block.  She  sat  looking 
idly  about  her,  watching  the  string  of  carriages  go  by  and 
looking  into  the  faces  of  the  streams  of  people.  Suddenly 
she  gave  a  little  cry,  almost  of  terror.  A  weird  little  form 
had  sprung  up  through  the  open  window  of  her  automo- 
bile, and  was  sitting  there  waving  his  worn  little  hat  with 
frantic  demonstrations  of  pleasure.  With  a  little  gasp 
she  recognized  Chicot.  She  leaned  forward  and  spoke 
to  the  chauffeur.  Then  she  descended  into  the  street. 
Chicot,  still  waving  his  hat,  ran  on  before,  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  passers-by.  He  led  her  straight  to 
where  Ambrose  was  thumping  out  his  miserable  music,  a 
few  yards  beyond  the  corner  of  a  quiet  thoroughfare.  He 
went  on  striking  the  keys  of  his  instrument.  He  did  not 
seem  to  recognize  her.  Suddenly  she  remembered  that 
she  had  been  brutally  selfish. 

"Ambrose  1"  she  exclaimed.  "Chicot  has  just  come  to 
fetch  me.  I  ought  to  have  found  you  out  before." 


166  PASSERS-BY 

Ambrose  continued  to  play,  as  though  he  had  not  heard. 
She  began  to  feel  almost  timid. 

"Ambrose,"  she  said,  coming  quite  close  to  the  barrow, 
"do  you  not  mean  to  speak  to  me?" 

He  ceased  his  playing  then  and  raised  his  eyes  to  hers. 
Her  heart  smote  her  as  she  saw  the  change  in  him.  He 
looked  much  older,  and  she  knew  very  well  that  he  had 
been  drinking.  The  signs  were  there,  and  she  recognized 
them. 

"  You  should  not  talk  to  me  in  the  streets,"  he  said  hi  a 
dry,  colorless  tone.  "People  will  make  remarks." 

"Nonsense!"  she  answered.  "You  forget  how  short 
a  time  it  is  since  I  stood  by  your  side  and  sang." 

"No,  I  do  not  forget,"  he  said,  "but  those  times  are 
past  and  gone.  There  is  no  need  to  remember  them." 

"  Ambrose,"  she  said,  resting  her  delicately  gloved  hand 
upon  the  top  of  the  piano,  "I  am  very  lonely." 

Something  seemed  to  leap  into  his  face,  but  it  was  so 
quickly  suppressed  that  she  could  not  tell  for  certain 
whether  it  had  really  been  there  or  not. 

"That,"  he  said,  "will  soon  pass  away.  I  think  that 
you  had  better  not  be  seen  talking  to  me.  Chicot  and  I 
will  move  on.  We  are  very  glad  indeed,"  he  said  softly, 
"to  have  seen  you." 

"Ambrose,"  she  begged,  "will  you  not  come  and  see 
me?  There  are  things  I  want  to  talk  about.  I  shall  be 


PASSERS-BY  167 

in  all  this  evening.  My  address  is  42  Victoria  Flats,  in 
the  Buckingham  Palace  Road.  Will  you  come,  please, 
and  bring  Chicot?" 

"To-night?"  he  asked  slowly. 

"To-night,"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  we  will  come,"  he  promised,  "if  you  really  wish 
it,  Chicot  and  I." 

"You  will  not  forget?"  she  asked,  as  he  picked  up  the 
handles  of  his  barrow  and  prepared  to  move  away. 

"We  shall  not  forget,"  he  answered  gravely. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  marquis  came  home  from  the  House  early  on 
the  following  afternoon,  to  find  his  study  invaded 
by  his  wife,  who  was  dictating  notes  to  his  secretary. 

"How  charming!"  she  exclaimed.  "Do  say  that  you 
can  have  tea  with  me.  We  will  have  it  sent  in  here, 
and  Mr.  Penton  shall  go  away  and  type  the  letters  I 
have  given  him.  We  shall  not  be  disturbed,  for  I  have 
given  orders  that  I  am  absolutely  not  at  home  this 
afternoon." 

"So  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  said  the  marquis,  "I  shall 
be  delighted.  I  have  an  hour  and  a  hah*  to  spare,  and  I 
really  came  home  to  rest." 

"Are  you  speaking  to-night?"   the  marchioness  asked. 

"I  imagine  so,"  he  answered.  "We  are  being  fright- 
fully harried  over  this  Algerian  business." 

Penton  hurried  away  with  his  note-book.  The  mar- 
chioness rang  the  bell  and  ordered  tea. 

"Francis,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  won't  think  me  quite 
impossible  if  I  ask  you  a  somewhat  bourgeois  question." 

"My  dear,"  he  answered,  "ask  me  whatever  you 
will." 


PASSERS-BY  169 

"Who  is  the  young  lady  with  whom  you  have  lunched 
and  dined  several  times  lately,  and  who  has,  I  think,  been 
seen  in  your  automobile?" 

The  marquis  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  His  wife 
drew  up  an  easy  chair  to  the  fire,  and  seated  herself  in  it. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  misunderstand  the  spirit  in  which 
I  ask  you  this  question,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him  a  little 
apologetically.  "I  am  simply  curious.  If  you  were  a 
different  sort  of  man  I  should  not  dream,  of  course,  of 
mentioning  it." 

The  marquis  waited  while  a  footman  who  had  entered 
the  room  arranged  tea  upon  a  little  round  table.  As  soon 
as  the  door  was  closed  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"My  dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "the  young  lady  in  ques- 
tion is  connected  with  a  part  of  my  life  which  I  am  only 
anxious  to  forget  myself,  and  which  I  sincerely  wish  that 
a  good  many  other  people  would  forget  also.  However, 
there  she  is,  a  person  to  be  explained  or  not,  according  to 
the  extent  of  your  curiosity." 

The  marchioness  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "I  never 
allow  my  curiosity,"  she  said,  "to  go  beyond  bounds. 
At  the  same  time,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  this.  The  young 
person,  you  say,  is  connected  with  a  part  of  your  life  which 
you  would  prefer  to  forget.  Is  she  connected  also  with  the 
anxieties  which  seem  lately  to  have  made  a  changed  man 
of  you?" 


170  PASSERS-BY 

The  marquis  sipped  his  tea  thoughtfully. 

"I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  "that  I  was  exercising  a  little 
more  self-control." 

"The  change,"  she  remarked,  "may  not  have  been 
obvious  to  every  one.  I,  however,  have  noticed  it.  Your 
nervous  breakdown,  of  which  the  papers  made  so  much, 
was,  I  imagine,  only  a  pretext  for  getting  away  from  Eng- 
land. You  show  a  very  brave  front  to  the  world,  but  I 
am  an  observant  woman." 

The  marquis  nodded  thoughtfully.  "The  young  lady," 
he  said,  "is  certainly  connected  with  events  in  the  past 
which  are  just  now  giving  me  a  great  deal  of  anxiety.  I 
may  add  that  when  she  appeared  I  was  very  much  at  a 
loss  to  know  what  to  do  with  her.  I  very  nearly  came  to 
you  to  beg  for  your  patronage." 

The  marchioness  sighed  gently.  "Anything  that  I  could 
do  —  "  she  murmured. 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  you  would  not  have  failed  me," 
he  interrupted.  "Unfortunately,  however,  any  direct  con- 
nection between  that  young  person  and  my  own  house- 
hold was  not  exactly  desirable." 

"I  cannot  be  of  any  assistance  to  you,  then?"  she 
asked. 

He  came  and  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  took  her 
hand  in  his.  "My  dear  Margaret,"  he  said,  "I  fear  that 
you  cannot.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  very  much  on  the 


PASSERS-BY  171 

brink  of  a  volcano.  It  may  blow  up,  and  it  may  not.  I 
have  to  take  my  chances." 

"You  would  not  care,  I  suppose,"  she  suggested  hesitat- 
ingly, "to  tell  me  all  about  it?" 

"My  dear,"  he  answered,  "I  could  not." 

The  marchioness  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "There 
was  a  man,"  she  said,  "murdered  a  few  weeks  ago  in  a 
young  lady's  apartment.  I  forget  her  name,  or  the  name 
of  the  man,  but  several  of  the  penny  society  papers  hinted 
that  she  was  the  friend  of  a  nobleman  preeminent  in 
politics  and  society.  No  name  was  mentioned,  of  course, 
but  it  was  quite  clear  that  it  was  you  who  was  meant. 
Was  this  the  young  lady  in  question?" 

"It  was,"  the  marquis  admitted. 

"And  the  murder  took  place  in  her  rooms?" 

"It  did,"  he  admitted. 

"Had  that  murder,"  she  asked,  "any  connection  with 
the  events  of  which  you  have  been  telling,  or  rather  which 
you  will  not  tell  me  of?" 

The  marquis  nodded.    "Without  a  doubt,"  he  answered. 

The  marchioness  was  again  thoughtful. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  suppose  there  is  anything 
else  I  can  say.  If  you  had  cared  to  give  me  your  confi- 
dence —  " 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  gently,  almost 
caressingly.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  "if  I  could  give  it  to 


172  PASSERS-BY 

any  one  I  would  give  it  to  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
cannot.  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  has  to  walk  through 
life  with  a  black  shadow  at  his  heels.  Some  day  I  may 
crush  it,  or  it  may  crush  me.  One  cannot  tell.  Only,  it  is 
quite  enough  that  it  should  wait  upon  my  footsteps.  I 
would  not  have  you  burdened  for  one  minute  by  my 
anxieties." 

"You  are  too  kind,"  she  murmured;  "kinder  and  more 
considerate  than  I  would  have  you  be.  If  I  thought  that 
it  would  help  you  in  the  slightest  I  should  insist  upon  your 
telling  me  everything." 

He  smiled.  "You  are  very  generous,"  he  said.  "We 
will  let  the  subject  drop  for  the  present.  Sometimes  in 
my  saner  moments  I  fancy  that  I  am  mad  to  take  so 
seriously  anything  which,  after  all,  is  more  like  opera 
bouffe  than  stern  reality." 

A  servant  interrupted  them.  There  was  a  person  below 
who  desired  to  see  his  lordship.  He  had  been  there  once 
before  and  had  been  admitted;  a  dwarf  or  cripple  he 
seemed  to  be. 

"You  may  show  him  up,"  the  marquis  directed.  "I 
will  see  him  in  the  next  room." 

The  marchioness  sighed.  "Then  our  tete-a-tete  is  at  an 
end,"  she  murmured.  She  rose  and  shook  out  her  skirts. 
"You  had  better  see  your  little  man  in  here,"  she  said. 
"It  will  be  more  comfortable.  And,  Francis,  I  should 


PASSERS-BY  173 

like  you  to  remember  this,"  she  added.  "I  have  asked 
for  your  confidence,  and  if  you  should  change  your  mind 
at  any  time  I  should  be  glad  to  have  it." 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  upon  the  lips. 
"Dear,"  he  said,  "some  day  it  may  be  necessary  that  you 
should  have  it,  but  I  hope  that  that  day  is  not  yet." 

She  swept  out,  leaving  behind  her  a  lace  handkerchief, 
which  he  picked  up  from  the  floor  and  regarded  curiously 
for  several  moments,  and  a  breath  of  lingering  perfume, 
something  like  the  odor  of  dried  rose-leaves  mingled  with 
lavender.  The  marquis  sighed  as  he  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  hearth-rug. 

Ambrose  was  shown  in  a  minute  or  two  later.  He  fol- 
lowed sullenly  an  immaculate  footman.  His  own  attire 
was  by  no  means  orderly.  His  clothes  were  ill-brushed, 
his  boots  were  unpolished.  He  was  certainly  not  a  pre- 
possessing object. 

"So  you  have  found  me  out  again,"  the  marquis  re- 
marked, as  the  door  closed  behind  the  servant  who  had 
admitted  him. 

"I  have  found  you  out  again,"  Ambrose  answered. 
"Don't  think,  though,  that  I  have  come  on  my  own  ac- 
count. I  have  come  neither  for  help  nor  with  threats. 
I  am  an  envoy." 

The  marquis  glanced  at  him  shrewdly.  "Come,"  he 
said,  "this  is  a  new  departure.  You  are  in  touch,  then, 


174  PASSERS-BY 

I  presume,  with  some  of  our  friends  from  the  other 
side?" 

"They  are  here  in  London,"  Ambrose  answered.  "You 
have  read  nothing  of  interest  in  the  papers  the  last  few 
days,  then?" 

"  Nothing,"  the  marquis  answered. 

"You  did  not  read,"  Ambrose  continued,  "of  the  man 
who  killed  a  warder  and  escaped  from  the  fortress  prison 
of  Enselle?" 

"No,"  the  marquis  answered.    "I  have  not  read  it" 

"Marcel  was  his  name,"  Ambrose  continued  slowly. 
"Marcel  was  his  right  name,  too,  only  in  prison  they 
found  him  another." 

The  marquis  stretched  out  his  hand  and  felt  for  the 
mantelpiece.  His  eyes  were  half  closed.  His  cheeks  were 
ashen.  "  Do  you  mean,"  he  asked,  "  that  he  —  that  the 
vicomte  has  escaped  ?" 

"I  mean  more,"  the  dwarf  answered  slowly.  "He  is  in 
London.  I  come  to  you  from  him.  He  has  sent  me." 

The  marquis  was  like  a  man  who,  after  a  long 
struggle,  finds  himself  face  to  face  at  last  with  the  end, 
the  end  which  is  death.  There  was  resignation  as  well 
as  despair  in  his  face,  as  he  turned  away  and  stood 
with  his  head  resting  upon  his  hands,  his  elbows  upon 
the  mantelpiece. 

"They  are  both  here,"  Ambrose  said;    "Pierre  and 


PASSERS-BY  175 

Marcel.  They  bid  me  tell  you  that  they  have  been  trifled 
with  long  enough.  They  bid  me  say  that  if  within  a  week 
you  do  not  appoint  a  meeting-place  the  covenant  of  silence 
is  at  an  end." 

The  marquis  was  silent.  He  understood  exactly  what 
it  was  that  they  meant.  For  some  time  he  did  not  stir. 
Then  he  turned  around  and  faced  his  visitor.  "What  sort 
of  a  mood  is  our  friend  in?"  he  asked. 

"A  murderous  one,  if  he  has  not  his  own  way,"  Am- 
brose answered  grimly.  "I  think,  milord,  that  you  had 
better  come." 

"So  do  I,"  the  marquis  admitted.  "Where  is  this  place 
you  spoke  of?" 

"In  Charles  Street,  off  Warder  Street  —  the  Cafe*  Kulm 
it  is  called." 

The  marquis  nodded.  "I  dare  say  I  could  find  it,"  he 
declared,  "but  I  think,  on  the  whole,  it  would  be  better  if 
our  friends  came  here.  People  have  such  a  trick  of  recog- 
nizing one  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  places." 

"It  would  be  better,  perhaps,"  Ambrose  admitted, 
"but  Marcel  has  lost  his  nerve.  He  is  terrified  to  move. 
I  am  not  sure  that  he  will  come." 

"He  is  probably  safer  here  than  in  Soho,"  the  marquis 
answered.  "So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  at  any  rate,  he  has 
a  safe  conduct.  Tell  them  to  come  at  twelve  o'clock  to- 
night." 


176  PASSERS-BY 

Ambrose  turned  toward  the  door.  "Very  well,"  he 
said,  "I  will  deliver  your  message." 

With  his  hand  upon  the  door-knob  he  hesitated  and 
faced  the  marquis  once  more.  "Listen,"  he  said.  "If 
they  speak  to  you  of  Christine  it  would  be  better  not  to 
"!et  them  know  her  whereabouts.  They  are  like  madmen, 
these  two.  They  are  not  safe  to  trust." 

"I  will  remember,"  the  marquis  answered,  watching 
his  companion  with  curious  eyes.  He  was  thinking  of 
Anatoile  1 


CHAPTER  XXin 

ON  his  return  from  the  House  that  night,  the  marquis 
let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key,  and  went  at  once 
to  the  study.  His  secretary  was  there,  engaged  with  a  pile 
of  letters. 

"Routed  the  enemy,  I  hope,  sir?"  Pen  ton  remarked, 
rising. 

"For  the  present,"  Lord  Ellingham  answered.  "There 
is  not  much  satisfaction,  however,  in  holding  office  with  a 
majority  as  slim  as  ours.  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer, 
Penton.  I  have  some  queer  sort  of  visitors  coming  in, 
people  in  whom  I  am  somewhat  interested,  and  I  want  to 
talk  to  them  alone." 

The  young  man  picked  up  his  papers  and  prepared  to 
leave.  The  marquis's  valet,  who  had  heard  his  arrival, 
had  come  silently  into  the  room  and  was  relieving  his 
master  of  coat  and  hat. 

"Whiskey  and  brandy  and  soda  on  the  sideboard,"  the 
latter  directed,  "a  box  of  cigars,  and  some  of  my  own 
Russian  cigarettes.  Nothing  more  to-night,  Perkins, 
except  —  wait  a  moment." 

The  man  came  back  and  bowed  inquiringly. 

12 


178  PASSERS-BY 

"There  will  be  two  men  here  to  see  me  directly.  They 
should  arrive  about  twelve  o'clock.  They  will  probably 
look  like  burglars,  or  some  sort  of  desperate  characters. 
It  does  n't  matter.  I  will  see  them  at  once.  Show  them 
in  here." 

"Very  good,  your  lordship,"  the  man  answered. 

The  marquis  found  himself  alone.  The  long  hand  of 
his  clock  pointed  to  five  minutes  of  the  hour.  Curiously 
enough,  although  he  fully  realized  the  seriousness  of  the 
situation,  he  felt  more  cheerful  than  he  had  done  for 
months.  At  last  th<?se  nameless  fears  were  to  take  to  them- 
selves definite  shape.  He  would  know  exactly  what  was 
demanded  of  him.  He  would  know  exactly  where  he 
stood.  If  it  were  a  question  of  money  —  he  ran  over  in 
his  head  rapidly  his  sources  of  income.  For  his  position, 
he  had  little  enough  to  spare,  and  yet  there  were  means 
of  raising  capital,  if  it  must  be  raised.  If  it  were  money 
they  wanted,  and  money  only,  he  might,  after  all,  fight 
his  way  through. 

Twelve  o'clock  struck.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  and 
mixing  himself  some  brandy  and  soda  drank  it  off  at  a 
draught.  It  was  rarely  that  he  touched  spirits,  and  he 
felt  the  effect  at  once.  Whatever  he  might  have  been,  he 
told  himself,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
hands  behind  him,  his  brows  knit,  his  eyes  flashing  with 
resolute  fire,  he  was  now  Marquis  of  Ellingham,  a  dis- 


"  Marquis  of  Elliugham  !  "  he  cried.     "  Lord  Ellingham,  indeed !  " 

{Page  179 


PASSERS-BY  179 

tinguished  politician,  the  head  of  a  great  house,  a  man 
entitled  to  respect  and  consideration.  He  would  not  allow 
himself  to  be  abjectly  frightened  because  that  terrible 
chapter  of  his  past  life  was  to  be  laid  bare.  He  would 
hear  what  these  men  had  to  say.  Afterward  he  would 
consider  what  was  best  to  be  done.  He  was  strong  enough 
to  hold  his  own.  He  had  influence,  power,  and  the  security 
of  an  established  position.  He  had  the  choice  of  many 
weapons. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  The  servant  with  some 
hesitation,  notwithstanding  his  orders,  ushered  in  the  two 
expected  guests. 

"The  gentlemen  whom  your  lordship  was  expecting," 
he  announced. 

Marcel  and  Pierre  entered.  They  both  wore  long  coats 
buttoned  up  to  their  throats.  They  both  carried  bowler 
hats  in  their  hands.  They  were  both  gloveless.  The  door 
closed  behind  them.  The  receding  footsteps  of  the  ser- 
vant were  heard.  Then  Marcel,  who  had  been  breathing 
softly  but  thickly  since  his  entrance,  clenching  his  teeth, 
obviously  at  war  with  a  storm  of  passions,  broke  loose. 

"Marquis  of  Ellingham!"  he  cried.  "Lord  Elling- 
ham,  indeed !  The  mansion  of  my  Lord  Ellingham ! 
The  butler  of  my  Lord  Ellingham !  Look  at  me ! " 

He  threw  open  his  coat.  His  blue  serge  suit  was  ragged 
and  shiny,  his  linen  frayed  and  soiled. 


180  PASSERS-BY 

"Look  at  me!"  he  exclaimed.  "Me!  A  vicomte  of 
thirteen  generations,  an  aristocrat,  fresh  from  the  convict 
prison.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  through  ?  Cham- 
pion, you,  Ellingham,  or  whatever  you  call  yourself?"  he 
cried,  pointing  at  the  marquis  with  shaking  finger.  "Do 
you  know  what  I  have  been  through  while  you  have  been 
living  here  in  luxury?  I  have  scrubbed  my  cell,  I  have 
eaten  bad  food,  I  have  herded  with  swine,  I  have  drunk 
water,  bad  water.  I  have  smoked  a  cigarette  once  a  day 
or  a  week,  perhaps,  of  tobacco  which  the  warders  refused. 
And  I  have  done  these  things  in  your  name.  It  is  you 
who  should  have  been  there,  you  who  should  have  come 
and  somehow  or  other  dragged  me  out.  But  you,  no ! 
You  were  a  traitor.  You  left  me  to  rot.  But  I  am  free ! 
Perhaps  it  is  my  turn  for  a  little  time  now." 

"Be  calm,  my  dear  Marcel,"  his  companion  begged. 
"  It  is  not  the  time  to  excite  yourself.  Those  days  are  past. 
We  come  here  to  talk  of  the  future." 

The  marquis  bowed  and  pointed  to  chairs.  He  pointed, 
also,  to  the  sideboard.  "  I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "  to  find  that 
you  come  here  to-night  in  a  spirit  of  recrimination.  I  will 
admit  that  on  the  occasion  you  have  mentioned  the  luck 
went  against  you.  Yet  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  greatly  to 
be  blamed." 

Marcel,  who  had  been  on  his  way  to  a  chair,  swayed 
upon  his  feet.  His  cheeks  were  livid.  His  eyes  seemed 


PASSERS-BY  181 

almost  as  though  they  would  start  from  his  head  —  black 
eyes  with  red  rims,  ugly,  uncompromising  things.' 

"Not  greatly  to  be  blamed?"  he  repeated.  "Not 
greatly  to  be  blamed,  when  you  stole  away  and  left  the 
others  to  their  fate  ?  When  you  robbed  me  of  my  means 
of  escape,  robbed  me  —  " 

"One  moment,"  the  marquis  interrupted.  "What  is 
this  you  are  charging  me  with  ?  I  robbed  you  of  the  means 
you  provided  for  your  own  escape.  Well,  if  you  had 
meant  to  leave  us  in  the  lurch,  I  scarcely  see  how  you 
can  blame  me  for  seizing  my  opportunity." 

"It  is  not  only  that,"  Marcel  cried.  "It  is  this,  this, 
this ! "  throwing  out  his  arms  in  a  comprehensive  gesture. 
"  Whose  money  has  gone  to  the  furnishing  of  this  mansion  ? 
Whose  money  pays  the  servant  who  brought  us  in  here, 
keeping  us  all  the  time  at  arm's  length  as  though  we  were 
vagrants  and  tramps?  I,  Vicomte  de  Neuilly,  great- 
grandson  of  a  Duke  of  France.  God  in  heaven !  I  ask 
whose  money  pays  for  the  clothes  upon  your  back?  For 
the  carriages  and  horses,  the  automobiles,  the  whole 
luxury  of  your  life?" 

The  marquis  was  looking  genuinely  astonished.  "  Whose 
money  is  paying  for  these  things ?"  he  asked.  "My  own ! 
Whose  else?" 

Marcel  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  brandy.  He  drank 
nearly  a  tumblerful,  neat,  before  he  spoke  again.  Then 


182  PASSERS-BY 

he  came  up  to  within  a  yard  of  the  marquis'  chair,  and 
stood  therewith  outstretched  hands.  "I  will  not  strike," 
he  said.  "I  will  not  ask  you  why  you  mock  me.  I  am 
here  to  tell  you  this.  You  are  worse  than  a  thief.  You 
are  a  thief  who  steals  from  his  own  kind.  You  are  a  man 
who  breaks  his  own  laws.  You  are  the  lowest  of  the  low. 
But  unless  you  would  have  the  whole  world  know  to- 
morrow, or  the  next  day,  what  we  know,  you  will  make 
instant  restitution.  You  think  that  I  shall  fear  to  speak, 
you  think  that  I  am  afraid  to  feel  the  handcuffs  once  more 
on  my  wrists,  the  irons  on  my  ankles.  I  would  rather 
feel  them.  I  would  rather  go  back  to  that  prison  and  rot 
in  my  cell  than  leave  you  here  in  luxury,  unpunished." 

"Upon  my  word,"  the  marquis  said,  "my  dear  Marcel, 
you  are  becoming  incomprehensible.  I  tell  you  frankly 
that  I  cannot  see  that  you  have  against  me  any  very  great 
grievance.  I  alone  escaped,  it  is  true,  where  you  others 
suffered.  I  fought  a  little  too  vigorously  in  that  first  rush, 
but  for  what  happened  in  the  struggle  you  can  scarcely 
hold  me  responsible.  I  should  have  sought  you  out  after- 
ward, have  provided  money  for  your  defense,  have  come 
to  lighten  the  rigors  of  your  prison  life,  perhaps.  Well, 
I  did  n't.  There  you  have  matter  for  complaint.  But 
what  more,  what  more  have  you  to  say  against  me?" 

Marcel  was  almost  hysterical.  "What  more?"  he 
shrieked.  "Why  this!  Not  only  did  you  keep  away 


PASSERS-BY  183 

from  us,  but  you  came  over  here  and  lived  in  luxury  upon 
our  money." 

"Either  you  are  mad,"  Lord  Ellingham  declared,  "or 
I  am.  I  have  never  seen  a  penny  of  your  money.  All 
that  there  was  in  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire  that  night 
was  seized  by  the  gendarmes.  I  escaped  with  less  than 
thirty  louis  in  my  pocket.  I  reached  London  absolutely 
penniless." 

Marcel  sank  back  into  his  chair.  He  tried  to  speak, 
but  a  sudden  pallor  crept  over  his  face.  The  dissipations 
of  the  last  few  days,  coming  so  soon  after  the  privations 
of  his  prison  life,  had  been  too  much  for  him.  Pierre 
bent  over  and  unfastened  his  collar.  The  marquis  brought 
more  brandy.  Marcel  slipped  to  the  floor  and  lay  there 
gasping  like  a  dying  man. 

"Shall  I  telephone  for  a  doctor?"  Lord  Ellingham 
asked. 

Pierre  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  answered  quickly. 
"  He  will  revive.  He  was  like  this  for  a  minute  or  two  last 
night.  It  is  nothing,  an  affair  of  the  nerves.  He  has 
brooded  upon  this.  Your  answer  excited  him.  See,  he 
is  coming  to  already." 

Marcel  moved  his  head.  He  sat  up.  He  gripped  Lord 
Ellingham's  wrist.  "Are  you  going  to  deny,"  he  whis- 
pered hoarsely,  "that  you  brought  four  million  francs 
away  with  you  that  night?" 


184  PASSERS-BY 

The  marquis  laughed  indulgently.  "My  good  fellow," 
he  said,  "  I  brought  exactly  what  I  have  told  you.  I  know 
no  more  about  four  million  francs  than  you  do." 

Marcel  staggered  to  his  feet.  His  mouth  and  eyes  were 
wide  open.  He  leaned  toward  Lord  Ellingham  and 
caught  him  by  the  shoulders.  "  Say  that  again  1 "  he  hissed. 
"Say  it  again !  Keep  your  face  where  it  is.  Say  it  to  me 
now." 

"I  repeat,"  the  marquis  said  quietly,  "that  I  brought 
away  from  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire  less  than  thirty 
lou  is.  Of  the  larger  sums  I  never  had  any  certain  knowl- 
edge. I  took  it  for  granted  that  you  and  the  others  had 
them  somewhere  safely  put  away  for  the  time  when  you 
would  be  able  to  seize  them." 

Marcel  staggered  back.  "God  in  heaven!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "If  this  should  be  true!  If  it  should  be 
true!" 

"Every  word  that  I  have  said  to  you,"  the  marquis  said 
earnestly,  "is  absolutely  and  entirely  true.  You  speak  of 
four  million  francs.  Where  are  they,  then  ?" 

"Where  are  they?"  Marcel  shrieked.  "Why,  they 
were  within  a  few  feet  of  you  when  you  escaped.  What 
has  become  of  the  three?  You  shall  tell  me,"  he  added, 
gripping  the  marquis'  elbow. 

"What  has  become  of  whom?"  the  marquis  asked,  in 
amazement 


PASSERS-BY  185 

"Why,  of  that  d d  trio,"  Marcel  cried,  "the  girl, 

the  hunchback,  and  his  piano?" 

The  marquis  freed  himself,  and  sat  down  in  his  chair. 
"A  girl,  a  hunchback,  and  a  piano,"  he  repeated  quietly. 
"What  of  them?" 

"You  know  very  well,"  Marcel  answered  quickly. 
"You  escaped  with  them.  You  turned  the  corner  of  the 
Place  Noire,  pushing  the  barrow  which  supported  that 
instrument,  with  the  hunchback  hopping  along  by  your 
side,  and  the  monkey  sitting  on  his  shoulder.  Did  n't 
I  see  you  where  I  lay  struggling  with  that  infernal  English- 
man ?  I  saw  you  go,  you  and  four  million  francs.  Where 
are  they  ?  I  tell  you,"  he  continued,  with  a  determined  air, 
rising  to  his  feet,  "I  will  find  them.  I  will  find  them  if  I 
go  into  every  city  of  the  world." 

The  marquis  was  still  bewildered.  "The  money — "  he 
began. 

"It  was  hidden  in  the  false  back  of  the  piano,"  Marcel 
hissed.  "I  arranged  that  when  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
escape  with  them  in  disguise.  Either  the  dwarf  or  the  girl 
has  found  it.  I  '11  follow  them.  I  '11  follow  them  as  long 
as  there  's  breath  in  my  body." 

The  marquis  was  silent.  He  was  looking  into  the  rem- 
nants of  the  fire.  "Four  million  francs,"  he  muttered, 
"in  a  piano,  with  a  girl  and  a  hunchback  and  a  monkey?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AMBROSE  reclined  upon  an  easy  chair,  with  Chicot, 
well  fed  and  happy,  upon  his  knee.  Opposite  to 
him  sat  Christine,  watching  the  pair  with  an  interest  which 
she  found  it  hard  to  account  for,  even  to  herself. 

"You  are  happy,  Christine?"  Ambrose  asked  suddenly. 

"Of  course  not,"  she  answered.  "No  one  ever  is,  es- 
pecially when  they  expect  to  be.  A  few  months  ago  I 
plodded  the  streets  with  you,  and  my  feet  ached,  and  I  was 
cold  to  the  bone.  I  was  sick  to  death  of  coarse  clothes, 
sick  to  death  of  our  struggling  life.  This  is  what  I  dreamed 
of  then,  dreamed  of  and  prayed  for  —  a  home,  warm, 
luxurious,  decent  clothes,  servants,  plenty  to  eat  and 
drink.  And  now  I  have  them,  Ambrose,  as  you  see,  and  I 
find  that  it  does  n't  make  much  difference.  Take  a  cigar- 
ette, Ambrose.  You  love  good  tobacco.  These  should 
please  you." 

Ambrose  helped  himself  from  a  tin  box  at  his  side. 
"Perhaps,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "it  is  because  you  are 
not  rich  enough.  Christine,"  he  added,  with  a  curious 
gleam  in  his  eyes,  "supposing  you  had  money,  a  great 
deal  of  money?" 


PASSERS-BY  187 

Christine  sighed.  "I  am  beginning  to  think,"  she  said, 
a  little  doubtfully,  "that  there  are  other  things." 

"There  is  nothing,"  Ambrose  said  grimly,  "which 
money  will  not  buy,  if  only  you  have  enough  of  it.  When 
I  say  enough  of  it,  I  mean  a  great  deal  —  millions,  Chris- 
tine, millions!" 

"Will  it  buy  me  friends?"  she  asked,  a  little  bitterly. 
"I  have  beautiful  rooms  here,  plenty  to  eat  and  drink,  the 
sort  of  clothes  that  I  like,  but  I  am  very  lonely,  Ambrose. 
I  am  lonely  half  the  time." 

He  looked  at  her  steadfastly.  There  was  an  uneasy 
seriousness  in  his  face.  His  eyes  seemed  almost  dilated. 
"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that  you  have,  after  all,  something  of 
the  spirit  of  the  vagabond  in  your  blood.  Our  life,"  he 
continued,  speaking  half  to  himself,  "was  not  always  so 
miserable  as  in  London.  Down  in  the  south  there  was 
sunshine,  sunshine  always,  dry  roads,  green  fields,  blue 
skies,  the  song  of  birds,  and  fruit,  bread,  and  red  wine  at 
least,  always  for  the  asking.  Christine,  we  were  mad  to 
come  here." 

"  Mad ! "  she  echoed.  "  Oh,  I  wonder ! " 
"Can  you  doubt  it?"  he  asked,  almost  fiercely.  "It 
was  an  evil  day  that  brought  us  across  the  channel,  that 
set  us  tramping  about  the  streets  of  London.  We  starved 
here  on  what  would  have  kept  us  for  a  week  in  the  simpler 
places." 


188  PASSERS-BY 

"It  was  I  who  insisted  on  coming,  she  said  thought- 
fully. "I  wonder  if  I  am  sorry?" 

"If  you  are  not,"  he  answered,  "God  knows  that  you 
should  be!  There,  from  day  to  day,  we  were  at  least 
natural.  We  sang  and  we  made  music,  we  rejoiced 
with  the  harvesters,  and  bowed  our  heads  before  the 
simple  coffin  carried  along  the  straight  white  road. 
We  lived  with  the  people  there,  Christine.  Their  joys 
were  ours,  and  their  sorrows.  Here  there  is  no  one  to 
care  if  we  die  to-morrow;  no  one,  that  is  to  say,  who 
counts." 

"You  are  right,  Ambrose,"  she  said.  "Sometimes  I 
am  tired  of  my  beautiful  rooms,  my  dresses,  and  my 
carriage.  Sometimes  I  would  give  them  all  for  a  day  of 
the  old  sunshine." 

Ambrose  leaned  a  little  forward  in  his  chair.  His  long 
fingers  were  nervously  interlaced.  His  voice  shook. 
"Christine,"  he  said,  "let  us  go  back.  I  swear  to  you  that 
there  shall  be  no  more  suffering,  that  you  shall  have  enough 
to  buy  pretty  clothes,  the  best  food  and  wine.  You  shall 
know  no  suffering;  you  shall  sing  only  when  you  like. 
Only  come.  This  life  is  not  good  for  either  of  us,  and  it 
will  be  worse." 

"How  do  you  mean  worse?"  she  asked. 

"I  mean,"  he  answered,  "  that  Marcel  is  here  —  Marcel 
and  Pierre.  They  will  track  you  down,  Christine.  They 


PASSERS-BY  189 

will  find  out  where  you  are,  and  they  will  come  and  de- 
mand a  share  of  all  that  you  have.  Christine,  let  us  go 
away.  Let  us  go  further  afield,  say  to  Italy.  We  can  be 
hidden  there." 

"Why  hide?"  she  asked.  "What  is  there  to  hide 
from?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Ambrose  looked  into 
the  fire.  It  seemed  as  though  he  were  debating  with  him- 
self whether  he  should  speak  of  secret  things. 

"They  are  desperate  men,  these,"  he  said.  "They  will 
try,  first  of  all,  to  get  what  they  can  from  Lord  Ellingham. 
I  think  that  they  will  fail.  Then  they  will  come  to  you. 
Anatoile  came." 

She  shivered.  Her  face  was  suddenly  pale.  "Don't 
mention  that  man's  name ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  answered  humbly.  "For  the  moment 
I  forgot.  Yet  listen  to  me,  Christine,  if  you  will.  I  did  not 
stop  you  when  you  vowed  that  the  one  object  of  your  life 
was  to  find  the  man  who  had  escaped  by  our  side  from  the 
Place  Noire  that  night.  There  was  something  righteous 
in  your  search.  I  figured  to  myself  that  you  would  find 
him,  that  you  would  say  to  him :  *  Back  to  Paris !  Back  to 
the  aid  of  the  man  who,  in  addition  to  his  own,  is  suffering 
for  your  crimes!'  I  did  not  imagine  that  it  was  only 
for  the  love  of  gold  that  you  were  hunting  him  down.  I 
fancied  that  in  your  heart  there  was  some  pity  for  the  man 


190  PASSERS-BY 

who  was  sighing  out  his  life  behind  the  walls  of  a  French 

prison." 

"Pity  for  him!"  she  interrupted  scornfully.  "But  I 
forget.  You  do  not  understand.  Listen !  I  did  start  out 
on  my  search  with  all  the  feelings  in  my  heart  of  which 
you  have  spoken,  but  there  came  a  time  when  I  saw 
things  differently." 

"The  man  was  too  clever  for  you,"  Ambrose  muttered. 

"It  was  not  that,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  tone,  and 
without  any  sign  of  resentment.  "It  was  not  that,  indeed, 
only  I  found  that  things  were  different  from  what  I  had 
imagined." 

"And  now,"  Ambrose  murmured,  "you  take  his  money, 
you  live  in  luxury  on  his  bounty.  It  is  not  a  good  thing, 
Christine,  for  you  are  nothing  to  him,  or  he  to  you.  It 
would  be  better  to  be  free." 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  do  not  understand,"  she 
said. 

He  sat  forward  in  his  chair.  The  firelight  played  upon 
his  long  haggard  face,  his  uneven  features,  his  tangled 
hair.  Yet  the  care  he  had  taken  with  his  person  was  not 
altogether  wasted.  His  face,  notwithstanding  its  strange 
setting,  might  have  been,  for  those  few  moments,  the  face 
of  a  poet  or  a  great  enthusiast.  His  eyes  were  burning 
with  the  fires  which  were  consuming  him. 

"  Christine,"  he  said,  "  if  it  were  possible  for  us  to  steal 


PASSERS-BY  191 

away,  you  and  I,  and  the  little  one  here,"  he  added,  draw- 
ing his  hand  over  Chicot's  head,  "if  it  were  possible,  I 
say,  to  steal  away,  to  find  some  corner  where  the  sun 
shone  and  we  were  safe  from  pursuit,  and  for  you  to  have 
all  the  money  that  you  could  spend,  all  the  luxuries  in 
which  it  were  possible  to  indulge,  would  you  come,  Chris- 
tine? Say  to  Greece,"  he  continued,  as  one  who  has  re- 
ceived a  happy  inspiration.  "You  have  often  spoken  of 
Greece.  It  is  a  beautiful  country.  You  would  like  to  go 
there?" 

Christine  looked  at  him,  as  though  doubtful  whether  he 
were  really  in  earnest.  "Do  you  mean  with  the  piano?" 
she  asked.  "  Do  you  mean  beg  our  way,  as  we  did  in  the 
old  days?" 

He  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  contempt. 
"No,"  he  answered.  "I  want  you  to  imagine,  just  imagine 
that  you  were  rich,  that  I  could  make  you  rich  without  the 
help  of  Lord  Ellingham  or  Marcel,  or  any  of  their  kin. 
Would  you  leave  England  then,  steal  away  without  a 
word  to  any  one?" 

"With  you  and  Chicot?"   she  asked  doubtfully. 

"With  Chicot  and  me,"  he  answered,  with  trembling 
lips.  "Have  we  not  cared  for  you  always?  Have  you 
not  been  dearer  to  us  than  our  lives  ?  Have  we  ever  failed 
you?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "It  is  not  that,"  she  said.    "After 


192  PASSERS-BY 

all,  why  need  we  discuss  this  seriously  ?  It  is  all  imagina- 
tion. You  have  not  a  fortune  to  give.  Even  if  you  had  — 

"Well,"  he  interrupted  breathlessly,  "even  if  I  had?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  think  I  have  had  enough,"  she 
said,  "of  playing  the  vagrant.  I  think  I  have  had  enough 
of  being  outside  everything  there  is  in  life  worth  having. 
Can't  you  realize,  Ambrose,  that  never  since  I  left  An- 
nonay  have  I  had  one  really  happy  day  ?  There  has  been 
excitement,  and  tragedy,  and  pain,  and  suffering,  flashes 
of  joy,  but  long  times  of  misery.  Oh,  I  am  tired  of  it !  I 
want  something  that  is  nearer  the  heart  of  life  itself. 
I  want  friends  and  a  home.  I  want  — 

He  was  suddenly  pale.  He  struck  the  chair  by  his  side 
with  clenched  fist.  He  leaned  forward.  He  seemed  al- 
most like  an  accuser.  "  You  want  a  husband ! "  he 
exclaimed. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Her  eyes  met  his  without 
flinching.  "What  if  I  do?"  she  asked.  "It  is  terrible, 
I  suppose,  to  confess  it,  but  is  it  so  very  unnatural  ?  Women 
were  made  to  have  some  one  take  care  of  them." 

"Haven't  you  been  taken  care  of  all  your  life?"  he 
asked  fiercely.  "Haven't  you  been  taken  care  of  when 
there  were  dangers  on  every  side,  through  hard  times  and 
difficult  ones?" 

"Oh,  I  know!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  have  been  very, 
very  good,  Ambrose.  Don't  think  that  I  could  ever  for- 


PASSERS-BY  193 

get  it.  You  have  been  the  best  of  guardians.  You  have 
looked  after  me  as  no  one  else  could  have  done." 

"God  knows!"   he  muttered  under  his  breath. 

"But,"  she  continued,  a  little  lamely,  "it  is  not  alto- 
gether the  same  thing." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  The  hand  which  held  Chicot  was 
trembling.  Chicot  leaped  up  onto  his  shoulder,  and 
pressed  his  hairy  face  against  his  master's. 

"I  understand,"  Ambrose  said,  a  little  hoarsely.  "For- 
get what  I  have  said.  I  have  no  fortune  to  give,  no 
fortune!" 


13 


CHAPTER  XXV 

!"  Ambrose  muttered.  "Hot,  fiery,  plenty 
of  it !  Waiter,  more  brandy.  Bring  the  bottle." 

The  man  hesitated.  Ambrose  laid  a  sovereign  upon  the 
table. 

"Do  you  think  that  I  cannot  pay?"  he  asked.  "Is  that 
why  you  hesitate  ?  Or  do  you  think  that  I  am  drunk  ? 
Look  at  my  hand.  It  is  steady  enough,  is  n't  it  ?  Bring 
me  the  brandy  at  once." 

The  man  hurried  away  with  a  little  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  If  his  queer  customer  chose  to  drink  too 
much  it  was  not  his  fault.  He  was  at  least  able  to  speak 
clearly;  he  had  no  signs  of  approaching  drunkenness. 
Yet  this  was  the  fifth  time  he  had  been  served  with 
brandy  the  last  twenty  minutes. 

"It  is  a  mad  dream,"  Ambrose  muttered.  "Four  mil- 
lion francs  is  too  small  a  sum.  If  the  skies  rained  gold  till 
one  stood  knee-deep  in  it,  it  were  hard  for  such  as  I  to 
wade  through  it  to  happiness.  What  shall  we  do,  Chicot, 
now,  eh  ?  Shall  we  give  it  up  ?  Shall  we  try  the  river,  or 
shall  we  turn  our  backs  upon  this  cursed  country  and  let 
Christine  go  ?  " 


PASSERS-BY  195 

Chicot  yawned.  Obviously  the  question  did  not  in- 
terest him.  He  had  dined  well,  much  better  than  usual, 
and  he  would  have  preferred  that  his  master  had  chosen 
to  go  straight  home.  Since  it  was  not  so,  however,  he  was 
content  to  doze  in  the  warmth  of  his  master's  pocket.  The 
waiter  brought  the  bottle  of  brandy,  and  Ambrose  drank 
once  more,  not  in  sips,  but  in  quick,  hurried  gulps.  The 
waiters  made  remarks  about  him  to  one  another  as  they 
passed  to  and  fro.  Ambrose  had  very  much  the  appear- 
ance of  a  man  who  had  just  committed  some  dreadful  deed 
which  he  was  striving  to  forget.  Marcel  and  Pierre  found 
him  sitting  there  when  they  arrived.  They  paused  for  a 
moment  by  the  door  to  look  at  him. 

"See,"  Pierre  remarked,  "he  has  money.  He  drinks 
brandy.  One  does  not  drink  brandy  for  nothing  here." 

"Bah !"  Marcel  answered.  "Does  he  not  still  push  the 
piano  ?  Who  would  lead  such  a  dog's  life  if  he  possessed 
but  a  hundreth  part  of  —  " 

Pierre  laid  his  hand  upon  his  companion's  shoulder. 
"Hush!"  he  said.  "One  does  not  know  in  this  sort  of 
place  who  may  listen.  See,  he  is  drinking,  and  he  mutters 
to  himself.  I  think  that  he  is  nearly  drunk.  See  how  he 
fills  his  glass.  It  is  a  fortunate  moment,  this.  If  there  is 
truth  to  be  wrung  from  him,  now  is  the  time." 

They  approached  the  table  and  greeted  him  noisily. 
Ambrose  set  down  his  glass,  and  looked  at  them  for  a  mo- 


196  PASSERS-BY 

ment  as  though  they  had  been  strangers.    Then  he  struck 

the  table  before  him  with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"Marcel!  Pierre!"  he  cried.  "Waiter,  bring  glasses. 
These  are  friends  of  mine.  They  will  drink  with  me. 
How  goes  it,  my  brave  Marcel  ?  Still  free,  I  see.  Long 
may  the  fortune  be  with  you ! " 

Marcel  looked  uneasily  around.  "Not  so  loud,  fool!" 
he  said.  "At  this  place  one  never  knows  who  listens. 
We  are  here  to  talk  with  you." 

"And  I,"  Ambrose  declared,  "I  am  here  to  listen. 
Speak  on." 

They  leaned  across  the  table. 

"Listen,"  Marcel  said.  "Take  your  thoughts  back  to 
one  night,  never  mind  how  long  ago,  when  you  hobbled 
and  ran  by  the  side  of  your  piano,  and  the  man  who  now 
calls  himself  Lord  Ellingham,  escaping  in  the  clothes  of  a 
workman,  pushed  the  piano  and  ran  by  your  side.  You 
three  were  there  —  the  girl  Christine,  you,  and  Ellingham." 

Ambrose  nodded.  "Aye,  it  is  true!"  he  said.  "We 
three!  Very  soon,  though,  we  lost  our  companion.  He 
crossed  the  city  with  us,  and  he  flitted  away.  We  saw  no 
more  of  him  till  a  few  weeks  ago." 

"Another  question,"  Marcel  said,  leaning  across  the 
table.  "It  is  about  the  piano." 

"The  piano?"  Ambrose  repeated,  staring  at  his  ques- 
tioner. "What  of  it?" 


PASSERS-BY  197 

"You  have  it  with  you  now,  in  London?" 

"Of  course,"  Ambrose  answered.  "How  else  could  one 
live  ?  There  is  no  bread  lying  in  the  streets  here,  no  brandy 
to  be  given  away.  And  brandy,"  he  muttered,  "is  a  good 
thing,  a  very  good  thing." 

"It  is  the  same  instrument?"  Marcel  persisted.  "You 
have  not  changed  it?" 

"Changed  it?  Why  should  I?"  Ambrose  answered. 
"It  was  made  for  me.  The  keys  are  worn,  but  the  inside 
is  good.  It  keeps  in  tune.  Why  should  I  change  it?" 

"Where  is  it  now?"  Marcel  asked. 

"In  the  entry  near  my  lodgings,  where  I  leave  it  every 
night,"  Ambrose  answered.  "Why  do  you  ask  me  these 
questions  ?  What  has  my  piano  to  do  with  you  ?" 

"Not  much,"  Pierre  answered  carelessly.  "And  yet 
we  were  curious.  You  drink  slowly,  my  friend,  after  all. 
Waiter,  more  cognac !  All  together  now !  To  us  who  are 
left  of  the  Black  Foxes!" 

Ambrose  set  down  his  glass.  "I  will  not  drink  to  that," 
he  said.  "  I  will  not  drink  to  a  gang  of  —  " 

Pierre  dropped  his  glass  purposely  upon  the  floor. 
Marcel  frowned  angrily. 

"  Fool ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Keep  your  tongue  still.  We 
will  drink  no  toast  at  all,  then,  only  to  ourselves." 

"As  you  will,"  Ambrose  muttered.  "For  myself,  I 
never  drink  toasts.  I  drink  and  I  drink  and  I  drink,  but 


198  PASSERS-BY 

toasts,  bah!  See  here,  my  friends!"  he  exclaimed  sud- 
denly. "What  about  my  piano?  Why  do  you  ask  me 
questions  about  it?" 

The  two  men  exchanged  swift  glances.  They  filled 
Ambrose's  glass.  They  filled  their  own. 

"For  no  special  reason,"  Marcel  answered. 

"For  no  special  reason,"  Ambrose  echoed.  "Good! 
Just  now  I  said  that  I  drank  no  toasts.  I  will  drink  one 
now  to  a  night  when  the  snowflakes  fell  soft  on  the  ground, 
when  the  revolver  bullets  were  whistling,  when  we  ran 
down  the  silent  street,  we  three  and  Chicot.  It  was  a 
clever  escape,  that,  and  it  was  all  through  me.  It  was  I 
who  managed  it  —  I,  for  the  sake  of  Christine." 

"It  was  wonderful,"  Marcel  declared,  "only  it  was  the 
wrong  man  who  escaped.  It  was  I  who  should  have  been 
with  you." 

Ambrose  shook  with  laughter,  a  strange  choking  laugh, 
in  which  there  was  little  enough  of  mirth.  "He  was  too 
clever  for  you,  too  clever,"  he  gasped.  "Somehow  I  think 
that  he  will  always  be  too  clever  for  you.  What  did  he 
tell  you  to-day?  What  did  he  send  you  out  for  to  seek? 
Why  do  you  ask  for  my  piano  ?  Eh,  Marcel  ?  Eh,  Pierre  ?" 

He  lurched  a  little  sideways,  and  his  eyes  seemed  closed. 
The  two  men  exchanged  quick  glances. 

"He  knows,"  Marcel  whispered.  "He  knows.  Fill  his 
glass  once  more;  then  we  will  take  him  home." 


PASSERS-BY  199 

They  filled  his  glass,  and  made  a  pretense  at  drinking 
themselves.  Ambrose  did  not  open  his  eyes.  He  seemed 
to  sleep.  The  manager  came  up,  summoned  by  an  ob- 
servant waiter. 

"You  must  take  your  friend  away,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 
"We  cannot  have  people  falling  asleep  here.  Take  him 
away  at  once,  please.  It  is  nearly  closing  time,  and  the 
police  might  look  in  at  any  moment.  It 's  hard  enough," 
he  added,  with  a  little  grumble,  "to  keep  one's  license 
as  it  is." 

They  jogged  Ambrose's  elbow,  but  he  only  fell  over  to 
the  other  side  without  opening  his  eyes.  Then  they  helped 
him  to  rise.  A  waiter  fetched  his  hat,  and  they  left  the 
place,  supporting  him  one  on  either  side.  They  moved  a 
few  yards  down  the  street.  Then  Marcel  called  a  four- 
wheel  cab,  and  they  hoisted  him  in. 

"Where  are  your  lodgings?"  he  asked. 

Ambrose  half  opened  his  eyes.  "Pickett  Street,  Water- 
loo Road,"  he  answered,  and  then  fell  back  among  the 
cushions. 

They  gave  the  address  to  the  driver.  Marcel  sat  by  his 
side.  Pierre  was  opposite.  The  cab  rumbled  off. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  two  men  who  stood  talking  earnestly  in  a  corner 
of  the  Duchess  of  Mechester's  drawing-room  ex- 
cited comment  both  on  account  of  the  length  of  their  con- 
versation and  from  the  mere  fact  that  they  were  carrying 
on  an  animated  discussion.  And  yet,  although  one  was 
Baron  de  Mayo,  French  ambassador  to  London,  and  the 
other  was  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham,  Secretary  for  Foreign 
Affairs,  the  interests  of  their  respective  countries  never 
once  engaged  their  attention.  So  far  as  the  baron  was  con- 
cerned, their  conversation  was  pure  gossip,  and  that  it  had 
any  further  significance  for  his  companion  was  a  fact  of 
which  he  was  entirely  ignorant. 

"I  had  to-day,"  he  remarked,  after  they  had  shaken 
hands  and  talked  for  a  moment  or  two  of  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, "a  visit  from  the  most  extraordinary  man  in 
France." 

The  marquis  was  interested.  "Pray  continue,"  he 
begged.  "All  my  life  I  have  wondered  who  was  really 
the  most  remarkable  man  in  France,  you  or  Monsieur 
Coquelin." 

"Neither  of  us,  I  fear,"  the  baron  answered,  with  a  smile. 


PASSERS-BY  201 

"The  man  to  whom  I  am  alluding  is  Jacques  Leblun,  the 
detective." 

"  I  have  heard  of  him  often,"  the  marquis  said  quietly. 

"He  is  over  here,"  the  baron  continued,  "in  connection 
with  an  affair  which  at  the  time,  I  remember,  interested 
me  greatly.  You,  marquis,  probably  never  read  of  it.  It 
is  difficult  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  domestic  affairs  of 
other  nations.  This  affair,  though,  was,  in  a  sense,  of 
world-wide  interest,  for  the  people  concerned  in  it  were 
of  all  nationalities.  It  was  simply  the  breaking  up  of 
a  band  of  thieves,  the  most  dangerous,  I  think,  in  some 
respects,  of  any  that  ever  flourished  in  Paris." 

"You  interest  me  greatly,"  the  marquis  murmured. 
"Pray  continue." 

"They  began  in  a  small  way,  I  believe,"  the  baron  said. 
"A  very  well  dressed  and  charming  woman,  accom- 
panied by  a  man,  also  irreproachable  —  a  man,  indeed,  of 
our  ancient  nobility  —  began  to  frequent  the  night  cafe's 
of  Paris,  the  sort  of  places  which  flourish  now  in  the  Mont- 
martre  district.  There  they  seemed  to  make  acquaint- 
ances with  people  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  young 
people  generally,  who  had  money  and  little  sense.  They 
made  acquaintances  with  Russians,  with  Englishmen, 
with  Americans,  and  in  time  invited  them  to  their  house, 
an  old-fashioned  but  very  fine  place  in  the  Place  Noire. 
Gambling  to  an  unlimited  extent  went  on  there,  gambling 


202  PASSERS-BY 

which,  without  a  doubt,  was  conducted  upon  principles 
favorable  to  the  occupants  of  the  house.  Strange  stories 
began  to  be  whispered  about  concerning  that  house  in  the 
Place  Noire.  People  entered  it  who  were  never  seen  to 
reappear.  From  it,  too,  as  it  eventually  transpired,  was 
conducted  a  system  of  robbery,  magnificent  in  its  con- 
ception and  on  the  whole,  I  should  imagine,  immensely 
lucrative.  The  police  were  warned,  and  the  whole  locality 
was  under  constant  surveillance.  And  yet,  so  clever  were 
those  people,  it  was  many  months  before  the  police  felt 
themselves  justified  in  raiding  the  place.  That  night 
attack  is  well  remembered  in  Pairs,  even  to-day.  Two 
gendarmes  were  shot,  but  three  of  the  ringleaders  were 
arrested.  A  man  named  Marcel,  who  was  supposed  to 
be  the  ringleader  and  against  whom  many  things  were 
proved,  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  life.  Through- 
out his  trial,  however,  he  denied  most  emphatically  that  he 
was  the  actual  leader  of  the  Black  Foxes,  as  they  called 
themselves.  He  denied  that  it  was  he  who  shot  one  of  the 
gendarmes  through  the  heart,  or  that  he  was  responsible 
for  more  than  the  conduct  of  the  gaming  part  of  the  place. 
The  police,  however,  were  almost  unanimous  against  him, 
and  the  story  of  some  other  leader  was  looked  upon  as  a 
myth.  Only  this  man  Jacques  Leblun  was  dissatisfied. 
There  was  a  story  about  a  man,  an  Englishman  or  an 
American,  I  think  he  was,  who  escaped  in  disguise  as  a 


PASSERS-BY  203 

workman  pushing  a  piano  through  the  streets.  Such  a 
person  was  certainly  seen  in  the  vicinity  that  night,  but 
was  allowed  to  pass,  as  there  was  nothing  to  excite  sus- 
picion. A  dwarf,  who  was  usually  in  charge  of  the  piano, 
was  there,  and  a  girl  who  sang.  They  were  known  to  the 
police,  as  all  these  semi-mendicants  are.  There  was  noth- 
ing against  them,  so  they  let  them  go  through  the  cordon 
which  had  been  drawn  about  the  Place  Noire.  Curiously 
enough,  however,  neither  the  dwarf  nor  the  singing  girl 
was  ever  seen  in  Paris  again." 

"A  most  interesting  story,"  the  marquis  declared. 
"You  say  that  the  man  Marcel  was  convicted?" 

"  He  was  sentenced  to  penal  servitude  for  life,"  the  baron 
said.  "That  brings  me  to  the  present  point  of  the  story. 
A  few  weeks  ago  he  escaped  from  the  prison  where  he  was 
confined.  It  was  not  an  easy  task.  No  one  but  a  person 
of  great  resource  and  cunning  would  have  attempted  it. 
But  he  is  free,  and  he  is  thought  to  be  in  London.  Jacques 
Leblun  is  here  upon  his  heels,  here  not  only  to  make  his 
arrest,  but  because  he  himself  believes  in  the  existence  of 
that  other  leader,  and  he  thinks  that  by  following  Marcel 
he  will  discover  the  other  person." 

The  marquis  drew  a  little  breath.  "Your  story,"  he 
said,  "becomes  still  more  interesting." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  find  it  so,"  the  baron  remarked  po- 
litely. "To  me  the  subject  has  always  possessed  a  certain 


204  PASSERS-BY 

fascination.  It  has  now  reached  an  exceedingly  interest- 
ing stage.  Somewhere  in  London  Marcel  is  hiding;  also 
somewhere  in  London,  if  the  theory  of  Monsieur  Leblun 
is  true,  is  the  man  who  was  his  associate  at  the  Place  Noire, 
but  who  escaped  capture.  Leblun  is  here  to  watch.  I 
must  confess  that  I  am  exceedingly  curious  to  discover 
what  the  result  may  be." 

"It  is  a  most  interesting  situation,"  the  marquis  said. 

The  baron,  struck  by  some  slight  hesitation  in  his  com- 
panion's tone,  glanced  into  his  face.  "Ah!"  he  said.  "I 
am  afraid  that  I  have  bored  you." 

The  marquis,  who  felt  that  he  was  ghastly  pale,  recov- 
ered himself  with  an  effort.  "These  rooms,"  he  said,  "are 
overheated.  You  know  we  English  cannot  live  without 
fresh  air.  I  think  I  shall  make  my  adieu  to  the  duchess. 
I  am  joining  my  wife  at  Esholt  House." 

The  marquis  drove  through  the  gaily  lighted  streets  and 
squares,  leaning  back  among  the  cushions  of  his  motor. 
His  arms  were  folded,  his  chin  had  sunk  upon  his  chest. 
The  color  of  his  face  was  still  ghastly.  There  were  drops 
of  perspiration  upon  his  forehead.  Was  it  to  be  in  vain, 
then,  this  fight  of  his  ?  Was  he  to  lose  it  all  —  honor,  name, 
and  power  —  for  the  sake  of  those  few  wild  months ;  be- 
cause of  a  shot  fired,  as  he  had  told  himself  a  thousand 
times,  in  self-defense  ?  Jacques  Leblun !  The  name 
seemed  to  ring  in  his  ears.  He  fancied  him  sitting  apart 


PASSERS-BY  205 

somewhere  in  a  little  room  of  one  of  the  great  hotels, 
looking  down  into  the  city,  watching  the  swarms  of  people, 
gifted  with  some  strange  power  by  which  his  searching 
gaze  could  penetrate  walls  and  annihilate  distance.  Even 
in  the  security  of  his  electric  brougham  he  looked  around 
wildly  more  than  once.  He  seemed  to  feel  the  eyes  of  that 
silent  Frenchman  following  him  wherever  he  went.  Mar- 
cel he  had  not  greatly  feared.  He  had  felt  himself  strong 
enough  to  deal  with  such  a  man.  Jacques  Leblun  was 
different.  Jacques  Leblun  had  had  suspicions  all  the 
time.  He  only  had  believed  Marcel  when  he  swore  that 
it  was  not  his  hand  alone  that  had  directed  those  amaz- 
ing coups.  What  was  to  be  done?  What  course  was 
there  open  to  him  ?  Flight  ?  It  was  the  most  dangerous 
of  all.  The  days  were  past  when  flight  from  the  hand  of 
the  law  could  be  effective.  The  world  was  girded  with 
steam  and  electricity.  Its  farthest  corners  were  at  the 
mercy  of  those  who  stayed  at  home  and  smiled.  Death  ? 
Well,  that  was  a  last  resource.  He  was  still  under  fifty, 
and  the  joy  of  his  new  life  and  the  honest  love  of  his  wife 
were  still  strong  in  his  blood.  Death  might  be  a  last  re- 
source, but  it  should  be  the  very  last.  Not  until  the  hand 
of  fate  was  upon  his  shoulder  and  the  world  was  growing 
dim  would  he  stoop  to  that.  To  buy  his  freedom  from 
Jacques  Leblun  he  well  knew  to  be  impossible.  The  man 
was  above  such  things.  Money  was  nothing  to  him ;  fame 


206  PASSERS-BY 

was  the  very  breath  of  his  nostrils.  There  was  no  move 
that  he  could  make,  nothing  that  he  could  do  save  keep  a 
steadfast  face  to  the  world  and  leave  the  issue  to  fortune. 

The  brougham  glided  up  to  the  curbstone,  and  stopped 
before  the  apartment  hotel  to  which  the  marquis  had  di- 
rected his  chauffeur.  He  descended,  and  crossing  the 
pavement  bade  the  commissionnaire  good  evening,  rang 
for  the  elevator,  and  ascended  to  the  seventh  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CHRISTINE  was  sitting  alone,  curled  up  in  her 
chair.  She  had  spent  a  quiet  evening  at  home 
and  was  now  thinking  about  Ambrose  and  their  recent 
interview.  She  heard  the  front  door-bell  ring,  and  rose 
doubtfully  to  her  feet.  Her  maids  had  gone  to  bed.  She 
could  not  imagine  who  it  might  be,  come  to  visit  her  at 
such  an  hour.  She  stepped  out  into  the  hall,  and  then 
paused  in  sudden  fear.  Supposing  it  should  be  Marcel ! 
She  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  The  whole  horror  of  the 
coming  of  that  other  man,  and  the  thing  which  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  was  suddenly  brought  vividly  before  her. 
Once  more  the  bell  rang,  softly  but  insistently.  She  heard 
a  sound  in  the  servants'  room,  and  it  gave  her  courage. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  not  alone.  A  cry  would  summon 
both  the  girls.  She  opened  the  door  and  peered  out. 

"You!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  marquis  nodded.  She  closed  the  door  mechan- 
ically, and  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room.  Then 
she  turned  to  look  into  his  face  once  more.  There  were 
signs  there  of  the  agony  through  which  he  had  been 
passing. 


208  PASSERS-BY 

"What  has  happened?"  she  asked.  "Why  have  you 
come  here  at  this  hour?" 

"I  came  on  the  chance  of  finding  you  up,  and  alone," 
he  answered.  "To-night  I  have  had  a  blow.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  about  it,  and  ask  whether  you  know  who  is  in 
London." 

"I  know  that  Marcel  is  here,"  she  answered,  "Marcel 
and  Pierre." 

Lord  Ellingham  shook  his  head.  "  It  is  neither  of  them," 
he  said.  "  One  could  deal  with  men  like  those,  one  in  my 
position.  It  is  somebody  worse.  It  is  Jacques  Leblun  who 
has  followed  them,  who  stands  aloof  somewhere,  watching." 

"Jacques  Leblun?"  she  echoed.  "Do  you  mean  the 
French  detective?" 

Lord  Ellingham  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  answered.  "He 
is  the  man  who  was  present  all  through  the  trial  of  Marcel 
and  the  others,  who  was  always  silent,  but  always  listen- 
ing. He  believed  that  Marcel  told  the  truth  when  he 
swore  that  there  was  another  man  who  was  responsible 
with  him  for  some  of  the  things  which  happened  at  the 
Place  Noire.  He  believed  that  it  was  not  Marcel  who 
shot  that  great  bully  of  a  gendarme." 

"And  he  is  here?"  Christine  asked ;  "in  London?" 

"He  is  here,  watching,"  the  marquis  answered.  "He 
is  here  because  he  believes  that  through  Marcel  he  will 
find  that  other  man." 


PASSERS-BY  209 

Christine's  face  softened,  her  dark  eyes  became  com- 
passionate. She  passed  her  arm  through  his,  and  led  him 
to  a  chair.  "It  is  terrible,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  not  so  bad 
as  it  seems  to  you  just  now." 

"Pierre  and  Marcel  were  in  my  house  only  yesterday," 
the  marquis  said.  "Even  the  details  of  my  escape  are 
known  to  Leblun.  I  was  told  to-night  by  Mayo,  the  am- 
bassador, of  the  man  who,  with  the  hunchback  and  the 
girl,  passed  out  of  the  Place  Noire  that  night,  wheeling  a 
piano." 

She  was  silent  for  several  minutes.  "I  wonder,"  she 
said  softly,  "how  much  you  really  had  to  do  with  that 
house  of  mysteries?" 

The  marquis  groaned.  "Not  so  much,  after  all,"  he 
answered.  "You  know  very  well  that  I  was  desperate 
that  first  night,  when  your  mother  and  Marcel  brought 
me  there.  I  was  ready  to  join  in  anything,  but  even  then 
I  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  gaming." 

"It  was  the  attack  upon  the  banks  ?"  she  asked  softly. 

The  marquis  nodded.  "I  was  in  that,"  he  admitted. 
"It  appealed  to  me.  It  was  a  desperate  adventure,  and  it 
meant  wealth  for  all  of  us  if  we  succeeded." 

"But  it  did  succeed." 

"It  succeeded  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  unfortunately 
the  house  was  raided  the  next  night,  and  I  suppose  the 

money  was  seized." 

14 


210  PASSERS-BY 

"You  were  not  concerned,"  she  asked,  "in  the  Pierre 
Laplage  matter?" 

"Not  I,"  he  answered.  "I  never  stooped  so  low  as 
that.  I  brought  some  English  boys  into  the  house  one 
night,  but  I  told  them  it  was  a  gaming-place,  and  that  I 
could  not  answer  for  the  play.  They  ran  their  own  risk." 

"If  I  could  help  you  —    "  she  murmured. 

"You  can  tell  me  where  I  can  find  Ambrose,"  the  mar- 
quis said.  "  If  he  goes  wheeling  that  infernal  piano  about 
London,  Leblun  will  find  him  to  a  certainty." 

"Ambrose  was  here  not  long  ago,"  Christine  said.  "He 
was  in  a  strange  mood,  too." 

"Has  he  ever  accepted  anything  from  you?"  the  mar- 
quis asked. 

"Not  a  penny,"  she  answered.    "He  will  not." 

The  marquis'  thoughts  went  back  to  the  day  when 
Ambrose  had  come  to  see  him  and  urged  him  to  fly  from 
the  country.  "It  is  conceivable,"  he  said,  "that  Am- 
brose might  feel  that  he  has  a  grudge  against  me  for  taking 
you  away." 

She  nodded.  "He  is  a  strange  being,"  she  said.  "I 
think  he  does  feel  like  that." 

The  marquis  gave  a  little  gesture  of  despair.  "It  is 
hopeless,"  he  said. 

"It  is  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she  answered.  "I  will  send 
for  Ambrose.  I  will  see  that  he  holds  his  peace." 


PASSERS-BY  211 

"It  is  useless  trying  to  bribe  him,"  the  marquis  said. 
"Money  seems  to  mean  nothing  to  him." 

"He  will  do  more  for  me  than  any  one,"  Christine  said. 
"I  promise  you  that  he  shall  not  betray  you.  I  will  see 
to  that.  As  for  those  others,  if  they  speak  they  must  go 
back  to  prison.  If  they  speak  they  lose  forever  the  chance 
of  making  any  money  out  of  you.  I  do  not  think  they  are 
to  be  feared." 

"There  is  one  more,"  the  marquis  said,  "an  English- 
man who  was  playing  at  the  tables  that  night,  himself,  I 
believe,  half  a  spy." 

"  Gilbert  Hannaway  I "  she  exclaimed. 

The  marquis  nodded.  "There  are  too  many  who 
know  or  guess,"  he  said.  "The  odds  are  heavy  against 
me." 

Christine  was  deep  in  thought.  "I  am  afraid,"  she 
said,  "that,  after  all,  I  am  your  greatest  enemy.  Ambrose 
is  wild  with  you  because  I  have  left  him.  Gilbert  Hanna- 
way and  I  have  quarreled  because  I  would  not  tell  him 
why  I  was  willing  to  accept  so  much  from  you.  Never 
mind.  Ambrose  I  am  sure  I  can  deal  with,  even  now. 
Gilbert  Hannaway  I  will  try." 

The  marquis  glanced  at  the  clock  and  rose.  "I  must 
go  on,"  he  said,  a  little  wearily.  "I  came  to  tell  you  these 
things,  Christine,  to  put  you  on  your  guard.  If  Jacques 
Leblun  should  find  you  out  — 


212  PASSERS-BY 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "  Look  at  me ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"Am  I  likely  to  be  recognized  ?  Remember  that  in  Paris 
I  wore  short  skirts,  and  my  hair  was  down  my  back." 

"  You  have  changed,"  the  marquis  said.    "  I  suppose  — 

He  broke  off  suddenly  in  his  sentence.  The  telephone 
bell  of  a  small  instrument  placed  upon  the  sideboard 
was  ringing  violently.  They  stared  at  each  other.  The 
marquis  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"It  is  past  eleven!"  he  exclaimed.  "Who  would  ring 
you  up  at  this  hour?" 

"Heaven  knows!"  she  muttered.  "I  shall  not  an- 
swer." 

"You  must,"  he  directed.    "Go  and  see  who  it  is." 

She  took  the  receiver  from  the  instrument  with  tremb- 
ling fingers.  There  was  another  receiver  upon  the  table. 
She  passed  it  silently  to  the  marquis,  who  held  it  to  his 
ear. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  tremulous  voice. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  except  for  a  strange 
vibration  of  the  wires.  Then  came  a  voice  which  at  first 
she  failed  to  recognize. 

"  Christine ! "  it  called.    "  Is  it  Christine  who  speaks  ?" 

"It  is  I,"  she  answered.    "Who  is  it ?" 

Again  the  vibration,  only  this  time  its  cause  was  ob- 
vious enough.  It  was  a  laugh,  a  strange,  half-delirious 
laugh.  The  girl  shivered. 


PASSERS-BY  213 

"It  is  Ambrose,"  they  heard  at  last.  "I,  Ambrose. 
Listen  well,  for  I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"I  am  listening,"  Christine  faltered.    "Go  on." 

"All  the  night,"  the  voice  continued,  "I  have  been  with 
two  madmen  —  madmen,  Christine.  Oh,  how  I  have 
laughed !  I  sat  with  them  in  a  little  cafe*.  They  whis- 
pered together  —  they  must  make  me  drunk.  So  they 
tried.  They  bought  brandy,  and  I  drank.  More  brandy, 
and  still  I  drank.  Then  they  whispered  together  again. 
My  eyes  were  closed.  And  what  do  you  think?  It  was 
of  my  piano  that  they  spoke,  the  little  piano  that  we  have 
wheeled  together  through  the  lanes  and  along  the  boule- 
vards and  across  the  streets  of  this  cursed  city.  They 
thought  —  listen,  Christine,  for  this  is  a  joke  —  they 
thought  there  was  something  hidden  in  it." 

Christine  looked  up,  and  her  eyes  met  Lord  Elling- 
ham's.  They  were  both  as  pale  as  death. 

"He  is  mad,"  she  whispered. 

The  marquis  said  nothing.  Even  his  lips  were  pale. 
From  the  wire  came  the  shrill  denial. 

"  Oh,  not  mad,  Christine,  not  mad !  Only  drunk  — 
drunk  and  happy  as  a  man  can  be.  It  is  so  droll.  They 
found  out  where  my  piano  was  in  the  entry,  you  know,  at 
Pickett  Street.  They  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  they 
helped  me  out  of  the  place,  and  my  knees  shook  and  my 
eyes  were  closed.  But  inside  I  laughed.  They  put  me  in 


214  PASSERS-BY 

a  cab,  and  we  drove  on  and  on  and  on,  all  the  way  to 
Pickett  Street.  They  helped  me  out  of  the  cab.  I  stum- 
bled across  the  pavement.  'Which  way?'  they  asked, 
and  shook  me.  I  led  them  right.  I  led  them  to  the  entry. 
I  showed  them  the  catch  of  the  gate.  We  entered,  and 
there  was  the  piano.  Christine,  it  was  droll  1  They  tore 
the  back  off  my  poor  little  instrument.  They  lifted  the 
first  board,  they  struck  matches  and  peered  in,  tore  the 
strings  in  their  eagerness  and  haste,  and  then  they  began 
to  curse.  I  sat  and  looked  at  them,  muddled,  drunk,  you 
understand,  drunk  as  a  man  may  be.  They  quarreled, 
those  two,  wild  with  disappointment.  They  quarreled  at 
first  silently,  and  then  I  saw  the  blood  rising  hot.  They 
spoke  so  fast  and  so  angrily  that  I  heard  only  one  half 
of  what  they  said.  They  were  very,  very  angry.  Marcel 
took  Pierre  by  the  throat.  I  sat  upon  the  ground  and 
watched  them.  I  was  too  drunk,  you  see,  to  move.  Then, 
as  I  swayed,  a  knife  fell  from  my  pocket,  the  knife  I 
always  carry  for  fear  —  but  never  mind  that." 

"Stop!"    Christine  shrieked.     "I  am  faint.     Don't  go 
on,  Ambrose." 

The  marquis  held  her  up.    He  did  not  speak,  but  there 
was  something  in  his  face  which  gave  her  strength. 

"I  am  better,"   she   murmured.     "Finish,   Ambrose. 
Finish  quickly." 

"  The  knife  fell  from  my  pocket.    Marcel  saw  it,  snatched 


PASSERS-BY  215 

it  up.  Pierre  saw  it,  too,  and  he  ran.  Out  of  the  entry 
they  ran,  and  I  suddenly  was  not  so  drunk.  Up  I  rose 
and  hobbled  after  them.  I  saw  them  go  down  Pickett 
Street,  around  the  corner;  I  saw  Marcel's  hand  lifted,  I 
saw  him  strike,  I  saw  the  crowd  gather.  They  picked 
Pierre  up,  and  they  chased  Marcel.  Listen,  Christine. 
Pierre  is  dead.  There  is  only  Marcel  left." 

She  began  to  moan.  She  lay  a  dead  weight  against  the 
marquis'  shoulder,  but  his  hand  still  gripped  his  receiver. 
For  a  moment  the  voice  said  nothing.  Then  it  continued : 

"Marcel  ran  swiftly,  and  they  say  here  that  he  has 
escaped.  But  Pierre  is  dead.  Where  he  fell  he  died,  and 
Marcel  is  hunted  now  for  his  life.  Christine,  these  things 
are  strange." 

"But  where  are  you?"  she  faltered.  "Is  there  no  one 
who  can  hear?" 

"I  am  in  the  place  I  love,"  he  answered.  "I  am  in  the 
great  public  house  at  the  top  of  the  bridge,  where  there 
are  cushions  and  mirrors,  where  it  is  warm  and  the  bottles 
of  brandy  on  the  shelves  stand  like  regiments  of  soldiers. 
No,  there  is  no  one  who  can  hear.  I  stand  in  a  little  com- 
partment, and  the  door  closes  tight.  No  one  can  hear. 
I  have  paid  my  threepence  to  talk  to  you.  I  have  told 
you  these  things,  Christine,  although  I  am  drunk.  It  is 
wonderful,  eh?  Now  I  go  back  to  my  seat,  to  drink,  to 
talk,  and  to  drink.  Good  night." 


216  PASSERS-BY 

They  heard  the  click  of  the  instrument  as  he  hung  the 
receiver  in  its  place.  They  listened  for  a  moment.  There 
was  no  other  sound.  The  marquis  turned  toward  Chris- 
tine. He  himself  was  trembling  in  every  limb.  Word  by 
word,  as  the  story  had  come  to  him  in  those  sharp,  staccato 
sentences,  he  had  felt  his  heart  beat  more  wildly.  The 
perspiration  was  standing  all  over  his  forehead.  He  was 
breathing  like  a  hunted  man.  He  saw  the  struggle  in  the 
entry,  the  knife  slip  from  the  pocket  of  the  dwarf.  He 
saw  it  snatched  up,  he  saw  the  chase  —  Pierre  bent 
double,  running  for  his  life;  Marcel,  degenerate,  half 
madman,  tearing  after  him.  He  seemed  to  see  the  blow 
struck,  he  saw  the  crowds  of  people  in  pursuit.  Last  of 
all,  he  saw  Ambrose  sitting  in  the  cushioned  seat  he  loved, 
the  brandy  before  him,  muttering,  drinking.  With  an 
effort  he  realized  where  he  was.  The  weight  of  the  girl 
was  heavy  upon  his  arm.  He  looked  into  her  face  and 
saw  that  she  had  fainted. 


The  weight  of  the  girl  was  heavy  upon  his  arm.     She  had  fainted. 

{Page  216 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

GILBERT  HANNAWAY  rose  from  his  chair  to 
greet  an  unexpected  visitor.  A  few  minutes  before, 
lingering  over  his  after-breakfast  cigarette,  he  had  found 
life  dull  enough.  But  the  magic  name  on  the  piece  of 
pasteboard  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand  had  aroused  in 
him  something  very  much  like  excitement. 

"Mr.  Leblun,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "I  am 
very  glad  to  know  you,  sir." 

There  was  nothing  impressive  about  the  appearance  of 
Jacques  Leblun.  He  was  short  and  slight,  dark,  clean- 
shaven, and  with  a  somewhat  worn  face.  His  eyes  were 
nearly  always  half  closed,  as  though  he  were  short-sighted. 
His  hair  was  parted  in  the  middle,  and  arranged  with 
great  exactness.  He  disposed  of  his  hat  and  stick  and 
accepted  the  armchair  which  his  host  had  wheeled  up  to 
the  fire. 

"Your  name,"  Hannaway  remarked,  "has  been  familiar 
to  me  for  a  good  many  years,  ever  since  I  spent  some  time 
in  Paris,  as  a  matter  of  fact." 

Leblun  nodded.  He  spoke  English  excellently,  and 
with  very  little  accent.  "You  are  very  kind,  sir,"  he 


218  PASSERS-BY 

said.  "You  were  in  my  country,  I  believe,  four  or  five 
years  ago." 

"That  is  true,"  Hannaway  admitted. 

"You  were  present,  I  also  believe,"  Leblun  continued, 
"when  a  house  in  the  Place  Noire  was  raided  by  gen- 
darmes, and  several  captures  made.  It  was  a  gaming- 
house, and  the  home  of  certain  men  of  a  dangerous 
character." 

Hannaway  nodded.  "I  was  there  playing  baccarat," 
he  said.  "The  place  interested  me.  I  had  been  there 
several  times  before." 

Leblun  sighed  gently.  "Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said, 
"  I  am  getting  an  old  man  now.  Such  ambitions  as  I  had 
are  practically  either  laid  aside  or  accomplished.  I  am, 
or  rather  I  have  been  all  my  life,  as  I  think  you  know,  a 
detective.  You,  I  believe,  are  one  of  those  gentlemen 
who,  without  being  connected  with  such  matters  pro- 
fessionally, still  find  a  certain  amount  of  interest  —  shall 
I  say  sport  ?  —  in  following  out  to  their  termination  such 
affairs  as  may  chance  to  interest  you.  Have  I  expressed 
myself  so  that  you  understand  me?  I  spoke  English  a 
great  deal  when  I  was  younger,  but  lately  I  am  a  little  out 
of  practice." 

"Your  English  is  perfect,  Mr.  Leblun,"  Hannaway 
said,  "and  I  understand  exactly  what  you  say.  It  is  true 
that  I  have  taken  a  certain  amount  of  interest  in  some  of 


PASSERS-BY  219 

the  great  crimes  of  the  day.  It  is  also  true,  if  you  care  to 
know  it,  that  my  interest  in  that  house  in  the  Place  Noire 
was  largely  because  I  was  aware  that  the  gaming-tables 
were  being  conducted  in  an  illicit  fashion,  and  I  was 
almost  certain  that  behind  it  all  there  was  another  and  a 
more  criminal  reason  for  its  existence." 

Leblun  sighed  gently.  "We  should  have  met  in  those 
days,"  he  remarked.  "We  might  have  been  able  to  help 
each  other.  A  raid,  as  you  know,  was  made,  and  certain 
captures  effected.  Marcel,  who  posed  as  the  ringleader, 
was  arrested  and  convicted,  not  only  for  the  various  rob- 
beries which  it  was  proved  had  emanated  from  that 
house,  but  for  having  shot  dead  a  gendarme  in  trying 
to  escape.  Marcel  —  this  may  not  be  news  to  you  — 
escaped  from  his  prison  three  weeks  ago." 

"Escaped?"  Hannaway  murmured. 

Leblun  nodded.  "To  you,  sir,"  he  continued,  "I  do 
not  mind  confessing  that  we  could,  if  we  had  chosen,  have 
arrested  him  within  a  dozen  hours  of  his  escape.  For 
reasons  of  my  own  I  persuaded  the  chief  of  police  to  let 
him  go  for  a  time.  It  is  always  perfectly  easy  to  lay  our 
hands  upon  him,  and  in  the  interests  of  justice  I  was  curious 
to  see  in  what  direction  he  would  turn  his  footsteps." 

"In  the  interests  of  justice?"  Hannaway  repeated. 
"You  are  going  a  little  beyond  me." 

Leblun  nodded.     "Permit  me,"  he  said,  "to  explain. 


220  PASSERS-BY 

Marcel,  at  the  trial,  as  you  may  or  may  not  remember, 
vigorously  protested  his  innocence  of  having  fired  that 
fatal  shot.  He  also  declared  that  there  was  another,  an 
Englishman,  behind  him  in  the  conception  and  execution 
of  that  remarkable  series  of  thefts  in  which  the  gang  that 
inhabited  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire  was  implicated. 
Marcel  was  not,  I  may  add,  believed,  except  by  me.  I 
have  been  convinced  always  that  there  escaped  from  the 
house  that  night,  wheeling  a  piano,  and  having  by  his 
side  a  hunchback  and  a  singing  girl,  the  man  whose  brain 
was  really  responsible  for  the  most  daring  and  successful 
robbery  that  Paris  has  ever  known.  Therefore,  when 
Marcel  escaped,  I  said  let  him  go.  Let  us  follow  him. 
He  will  lead  us  toward  that  person  who,  in  all  probability, 
made  off  with  the  large  sums  of  money  which  we  were 
unable  to  lay  our  hands  on  at  the  time  of  the  raid.  Marcel 
headed  straight  for  London.  He  is  in  London  now,  in 
hiding,  and  in  desperate  fear  for  his  life.  Since  his  coming 
he  has  added  to  his  crimes.  Two  days  ago,  in  some 
drunken  quarrel,  he  stabbed  his  companion,  an  associate, 
a  man  named  Pierre  Michel,  and  only  escaped  from  the 
police  through  a  miracle." 

"You  take  my  breath  away!"  Hannaway  exclaimed. 
"  I  read  in  the  papers  of  an  affair  —  near  Waterloo  Bridge, 
I  think  it  was  —  between  two  Frenchmen." 

Leblun  nodded.     "Marcel,"  he  said,  "is  lying,  as  he 


PASSERS-BY  221 

thinks,  securely  hidden,  in  reality  watched  by  an  army  of 
spies.  But  he  makes  no  move.  He  goes  nowhere.  He 
has  sent  one  message,  and  only  one.  That  was  delivered 
to  a  hunchback  somewhere  down  in  Pickett  Street,  who 
goes  around  with  a  piano  and  a  monkey.  Without  a  doubt 
he  is  the  same  person  who  was  with  the  man  of  whom 
Marcel  is  in  search." 

"The  note  was  delivered  ?"  Hannaway  asked. 

"It  was  delivered,"  Leblun  answered.  "Every  move- 
ment of  the  hunchback  will  be  watched,  just  the  same  as 
every  movement  of  Marcel  himself.  It  is  clear  that  for 
some  reason  Marcel  does  not  desire  to  communicate 
directly  with  his  former  coadjutor.  He  is  going  to  do  it 
through  Drake.  At  least,  that  is  what  we  surmise." 

"Tell  me,"  Hannaway  asked,  "since  Marcel's  arrival 
in  this  country  has  he  made  no  calls  whatever  upon  any 
one  whom  you  could  associate  with  the  house  in  the  Place 
Noire?" 

"We  fancy  not,"  Leblun  answered.  "Perfect  though 
I  believe  my  spy  system  is,  there  was  one  night  when  it 
went  wrong.  Marcel  and  Pierre  disappeared  somewhere 
in  the  West  End,  and  for  several  hours  were  not  seen. 
They  reappeared,  however,  at  a  small  cafe"  in  Soho,  with- 
out money,  but  in  a  state  of  some  excitement.  I  don't 
think  it  possible  that  they  would  discover  the  man  whom 
they  had  lost,  and  come  away  without  money." 


222  PASSERS-BY 

"I  have  found  all  this  exceedingly  interesting,"  Hanna- 
way  admitted.  "Now  let  me  ask  you  a  more  personal 
question.  Why  have  you  come  here  to  take  me  into  your 
confidence?" 

Leblun  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Mr.  Hannaway," 
he  said,  "I  am  no  longer  a  vain  man.  I  am  no  longer 
anxious  to  obtain  for  myself  all  the  glory  of  a  subtle  cap- 
ture. I  want  to  find  this  man  of  whom  Marcel  himself  is 
in  search,  and  I  come  to  you  for  your  help.  In  return  you 
shall  have  whatever  credit  there  may  be  in  having  tracked 
him  down." 

"You  want  to  find,"  Hannaway  said  thoughtfully,  "the 
man  who  escaped  from  the  Place  Noire  that  night  in  the 
garb  of  a  workman." 

"Exactly,"  Leblun  answered.  "He  is  in  London  some- 
where. That  I  know.  He  should  have  stood  beside 
Marcel  in  the  dock.  He  should  now  be  serving  his  time 
in  a  French  prison.  In  the  interests  of  justice  I  should 
like  to  lay  my  hands  upon  him." 

"Mr.  Leblun,"  Hannaway  said,  "I  am  flattered  by 
your  visit  and  the  offer  you  have  made  me,  but  I  cannot 
help  you." 

The  Frenchman  leaned  forward  in  his  chair.  Sud- 
denly the  man's  whole  intelligence  seemed  to  shine  out  of 
his  face.  His  eyes  were  like  gimlets.  Hannaway  felt  that 
his  very  thoughts  were  being  read. 


PASSERS-BY  223 

"You  know  who  this  man  is,"  the  detective  said  quickly. 
"Your  manner  tells  me  so.  There  is  no  doubt  whatever 
about  it.  You  desire  to  shield  him,  and  therefore  you  will 
not  help  me.  Why  ?  Is  he  your  friend  ?  Or  your  friend's 
friend  ?  Why,  I  ask  you  ?" 

Hannaway  was  a  little  taken  aback.  He  was  not  pre- 
pared with  an  immediate  answer. 

"Consider  what  you  are  doing,"  Leblun  said  seriously. 
"Crime  is  crime,  all  the  world  over.  It  is  no  kindness  to 
society  to  shield  a  man  who  has  not  paid  his  debt  to  the 
laws  of  his  country.  He  may  now  be  in  a  position  to  com- 
mand your  sympathy.  He  may  be  poor  and  unfortunate, 
perhaps,  and  you  may  say  to  yourself,  'He  has  suffered 
enough/  You  may  shrug  your  shoulders  and  say,  'I  will 
have  mercy,  I  will  keep  silence.'  Or  again,  he  may  have 
become  rich  and  powerful.  He  may  have  found  a  place  in 
the  great  world.  He  may  be  married  and  have  children, 
and  you  may  say  to  yourself,  'The  man  has  reformed. 
Years  have  gone  by.  I  will  not  bring  the  shadow  of  his 
past  life  to  darken  his  present.  The  days  of  his  sin  have 
passed.  I  will  let  him  alone.'  Which  is  it,  Mr.  Hanna- 
way ?  Will  you  tell  me  that  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  you  nothing,"  Hannaway  answered. 

Leblun  sighed  gently.  "Ah!"  he  said.  "Ours  is  a 
profession  in  which  the  sentimentalist  is  bound  to  come 
to  grief.  That  is  the  worst  of  you  amateurs.  Up  to  a 


224  PASSERS-BY 

certain  point  you  are  excellent.  Then  you  break  down. 
Pardon  me  if  I  remind  you  that  it  is  generally  a  woman 
who  is  responsible  for  these  breakdowns.  What,  I  wonder, 
has  become  of  the  girl  who  was  with  the  dwarf  and  the 
workman,  when  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  Place  Noire 
and  vanished  into  space?  Can  you  tell  me  that,  Mr. 
Hannaway  ?" 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing,"  Hannaway  answered. 

"But  you  could,"  Leblun  interrupted  quickly.  "Oh,  I 
am  sure  of  that !  You  have  too  honest  a  face.  One  can- 
not look  at  you  and  make  mistakes.  So  the  girl  is  in  it, 
too !  I  am  afraid  we  have  lost  sight  of  her.  Still,  if  you 
will  not  help  me,  I  must  work  alone.  It  is  not  a  difficult 
task,  after  all,  you  know.  Sooner  or  later  Marcel  or  Drake, 
or  some  messenger,  must  go  stealing  on  his  way  toward 
this  person,  whoever  he  may  be.  Marcel  cannot  starve. 
He  cannot  live  long  without  brandy  and  cigarettes.  H« 
has  nothing,  nothing  at  all.  I  have  seen  to  that.  We  must 
wait."  He  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  Hannaway.  " Au  revoir,"  he  said.  "I  am  sorry 
that  you  decline  my  offer  of  comradeship." 

"It  is  not  that  exactly,  Mr.  Leblun,"  Hannaway  said. 
"I  am  flattered  to  have  received  a  visit  from  you.  But  as 
you  yourself  said,  I  am  only  a  dabbler  in  such  affairs.  I 
might  follow  them  out  if  I  were  greatly  interested,  if  I  felt 
that  it  was  in  the  interest  of  human  justice,  not  only  legal 


PASSERS-BY  225 

justice,  to  do  so.  But  frankly,  I  tell  you  that  in  this  case 
my  sympathies  are  against  you." 

"You  do  not  deny,  then,"  Leblun  said  quickly,  "that 
you  know  the  man." 

"I  believe,"  Hannaway  answered,  "that  I  could  find 
him.  If  my  suspicions  are  just,  although  personally  I 
have  a  grievance  against  him,  I  should  say  let  him  go." 

Leblun  smiled.  "Ah!"  he  said.  "We  others,  you 
know,  we  know  only  one  kind  of  justice,  and  that  is  the 
justice  which  brings  to  punishment,  to  legal  punishment, 
I  should  say,  the  criminal.  I  know  of  no  other  sort.  We 
may  meet  again,  Mr.  Hannaway." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  leaving  Hannaway  a  little  dazed 
by  the  turn  their  conversation  had  taken,  more  than  a 
little  disturbed  at  its  possible  import.  He  went  slowly 
into  his  dressing-room,  changed  his  clothes,  and  descended 
into  the  street.  Even  then  he  seemed  undecided  as  to  his 
destination.  He  called  a  hansom,  and  directed  the  man 
to  drive  to  Cavendish  Square.  He  had  gone  scarcely  a 
hundred  yards,  however,  when  he  redirected  him. 

"Number  42  Victoria  Flats,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  maid-servant  who  admitted  Hannaway  was  a 
little  uncertain  whether  her  mistress  would  see 
him.  There  was  a  gentleman  already  in  the  drawing- 
room.  But  at  that  moment  Christine's  own  maid,  crossing 
the  hall,  welcomed  Hannaway  with  a  little  smile.  She 
was  sure  her  mistress  was  always  ready  to  receive  Mon- 
sieur Hannaway ! 

She  threw  open  the  drawing-room  door  and  announced 
him.  Hannaway  drew  back,  but  he  was  too  late.  Chris- 
tine's visitor  had  already  recognized  him.  Christine 
herself  seemed  rather  to  welcome  his  coming.  Monsieur 
Leblun  laughed  softly  as  he  rose  and  bowed. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Monsieur  Hannaway,"  he  said,  "you 
should  have  accepted  my  offer  of  an  alliance.  You  see 
how  easy  it  is  for  those  with  whom  fortune  sides.  If 
there  was  one  thing  more  than  another  that  I  would  have 
given  much  to  know,"  he  added,  "it  was  to  whom  your 
first  visit  would  be  paid  after  our  little  conversation  a  few 
minutes  ago.  Chance,  you  see,  has  told  me.  Chance  has 
brought  you  here.  If  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson  is  half  as 
glad  to  see  you  as  I  am  your  welcome  is  indeed  a  warm 
one." 


PASSERS-BY  227 

Christine  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  astonishment 
She  did  not  understand.  "What  does  it  mean?"  she 
asked  Hannaway.  "And  why  do  you  come  to  me?" 
she  added,  drawing  herself  up.  "You  have  been  away  so 
long  that  this  is  a  pleasure  which  I  scarcely  expected." 

Hannaway  threw  aside  all  personal  scruples.  "I  came," 
he  said  simply,  "because  I  could  not  stay  away  any 
longer.  I  do  not  quite  understand  what  our  friend  Mr. 
Leblun  means,  but  I  can  assure  you  that  my  visit  here 
was  planned  long  before  his  call  upon  me  this  morning." 

Mr.  Leblun  smiled  and  glanced  at  the  clock.  "A  man," 
he  said,  "who  at  half-past  ten  presents  himself  at  the 
house  of  a  very  charming  young  lady  is  not  as  a  rule  to  be 
found  at  ten  o'clock  in  slippers  and  dressing-gown,  with 
a  Bradshaw  and  Continental  Guide  on  his  knee  and  the 
frown  of  a  pessimist  on  his  forehead.  I  must  confess, 
Mr.  Hannaway,  that  I  do  not  believe  you  were  promising 
yourself  so  pleasant  a  morning." 

"I  do  not  imagine,"  Hannaway  said,  "that  my  move- 
ments one  way  or  the  other  need  concern  you.  This 
young  lady  and  I  are  engaged  to  be  married.  I  have  a 
right,  therefore,  to  come  when  I  choose,  and  to  ask  you 
the  meaning  of  your  visit?" 

Christine  was  dumb  with  amazement.  Then  a  flood  of 
color  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  She  looked  toward  Hannaway, 
and  met  his  earnest  gaze. 


228  PASSERS-BY 

"As  to  the  object  of  my  visit,"  Leblun  said,  "it  is  easily 
told.  I  came  to  ask  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson  with  whom 
she  and  the  hunchback  Drake  left  the  Place  Noire, 
one  night  four  years,  seven  months,  and  twelve  days 
ago.  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson  has  not  yet  told  me," 
he  added,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  her,  "but  I  believe  that 
she  can." 

"Mademoiselle  de  Lanson,  on  the  contrary,"  Christine 
said,  "can  tell  you  nothing  of  the  sort.  There  was  a  man, 
but  I  always  understood  that  it  was  Marcel.  He  disap- 
peared soon  after  we  turned  the  corner  of  the  square.  I 
have  not  seen  him  since." 

Leblun  smiled.  "Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "the  in- 
terests of  justice  are  great,  and  sometimes  they  justify 
strange  questions.  You  and  your  companion  were  penni- 
less in  those  days,  you  were  penniless  when  you  tramped 
your  way  across  France,  you  were  penniless  when  you 
landed  in  London,  you  were  penniless,  almost  starving, 
for  weeks  afterward.  Let  me  ask  you,  where  does  the 
money  come  from  for  this?"  He  made  a  rapid  move- 
ment with  his  hand  around  the  room. 

Christine  drew  herself  up  and  pressed  the  bell  by  her 
side.  "Monsieur  Leblun,"  she  said,  "you  may  be  a 
wonderful  detective,  but  it  is  not  permitted  of  any  one  to 
address  such  questions  to  me.  The  money  for  my  rooms, 
and  for  the  wages  of  the  servant  whom  I  have  summoned 


PASSERS-BY  229 

to  show  you  out,  is  my  own,  and  where  it  comes  from  is 
my  business." 

The  parlormaid  was  already  at  the  door.  Christine 
turned  to  her. 

"You  will  show  this  gentleman  out,"  she  said,  pointing 
to  Leblun. 

Leblun  took  up  his  hat  and  stick.  Not  a  muscle  of  his 
face  betrayed  in  any  way  humiliation  or  disappointment. 
"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "I  am  obliged  to  you  for  what 
you  have  told  me  and  for  what  you  have  not  told  me.  I 
rejoice  to  have  found  you  in  such  pleasant  circumstances, 
and  in  such  good  health;  and  I  congratulate  you  both," 
he  added  with  an  almost  fatherly  air,  "upon  an  engage- 
ment which  cannot,  I  am  sure,  end  anyhow  but  happily. 
Good  morning." 

He  disappeared  with  a  farewell  bow.  The  door  was 
closed  behind  him.  They  heard  the  servant  show  him 
out.  They  heard  the  rattle  of  the  elevator  as  it  descended. 
Then  Christine  sank  into  a  chair.  Hannaway  was  still 
standing. 

"Christine,"  he  said,  "for  months  I  have  suspected  the 
truth.  I  mean  that  I  have  suspected  the  identity  of  the 
man  who  escaped  with  you  that  night.  For  some  weeks 
I  have  known  it  for  a  certainty." 

She  sat  up  and  looked  at  him.  "Well,"  she  said,  "what 
concern  is  it  of  yours?  What  are  you  going  to  do  about 


230  PASSERS-BY 

it?  And  how  dared  you  come  here  and  say  such  things 
to  that  man?" 

"I  said  them,"  Hannaway  continued,  "because  I  wished 
to  have  the  right  to  order  him  from  the  room  if  it  were 
necessary.  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could  say  them  truthfully." 

She  laughed,  a  little  bitterly.  "What,  of  me?"  she 
exclaimed,  "a  singer  in  the  streets,  a  — 

"A  singer  in  the  streets,  if  you  will,"  he  interrupted. 
"That  makes  no  difference.  As  a  singer  in  the  streets  I 
would  take  you  to  my  heart  to-morrow,  gladly  and  proudly. 
It  is  not  that.  It  is  when  you  become  the  pensioner  of 
Lord  Ellingham  that  I  am  forced  to  drop  my  arms.  I 
once  asked  you  for  an  explanation,  but  you  would  not 
give  it.  A  word  from  me  this  morning  and  there  would  no 
longer  have  been  a  Lord  Ellingham.  I  ask  no  reward 
for  keeping  your  secret.  All  that  I  ask  is  that  you  tell  me 
the  truth." 

"I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "You  have  done  your 
service,  and  you  shall  be  paid.  But  understand  that  I 
tell  you  not  of  my  own  free  will,  but  because  I  may  be 
said  to  owe  it  to  you.  Lord  Ellingham  is  my  stepfather." 

"Your  stepfather?"  Hannaway  repeated  slowly.  "You 
mean  that  he  was  married  — 

"He  was  married  to  my  mother,  Madame  de  Lanson  of 
Annonay,"  she  repeated.  "It  was  when  we  were  all  living 
with  my  uncle  at  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire." 


PASSERS-BY  231 

"This  is  amazing,"  Hannaway  murmured.  "Why, 
she  died  a  month  before  the  raid." 

"She  died  exactly  five  weeks  after  she  was  married," 
Christine  answered.  "I  think  that  he  tried  to  be  kind  to 
me,  but  I  was  very  angry,  and  it  was  then  that  I  ran  away 
and  joined  Ambrose." 

"So  that  is  why  you  were  up  in  the  Place  Noire  that 
night?"  Hannaway  remarked.  "You  were  there  to  help 
him  to  escape?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head.  "On  the  contrary,"  she  said, 
"I  thought  it  was  my  uncle  who  was  with  us.  He  sent  an 
urgent  message  for  us  to  go  up  that  night,  and  to  take  a 
suit  of  workman's  clothes.  We  went  and  left  them  exactly 
where  he  told  us,  and  waited  opposite  the  house,  in  one 
of  those  dark  corners.  When  a  man  came  out  dressed  in 
those  things  we  did  as  he  told  us  and  hastened  away.  For 
years  I  thought  it  was  Marcel  who  had  escaped,  and  I  was 
always  angry  because  he  had  done  nothing  for  us.  He 
had  my  mother's  money  and  mine.  After  that  night  we 
hurried  away  into  the  country.  I  never  looked  at  the 
papers.  It  was  Ambrose  who  told  me  what  had  happened. 
And  Ambrose  lied.  He  told  me  that  it  was  my  stepfather 
who  had  been  arrested  and  sent  to  prison  as  the  head  of 
the  gang,  and  that  my  uncle  was  still  free.  So  I  went 
searching  for  him,  determined  that  somehow  or  other  I 
would  make  him  restore  the  money  which  belonged  to  me, 


232  PASSERS-BY 

and  which  he  had  promised  my  mother  that  I  should  have. 
Then  that  morning  at  Victoria  Station  I  saw  the  man 
whom  I  had  believed  was  in  a  French  prison." 

"Lord  Ellingham!"  Hannaway  exclaimed.  He  moved 
suddenly  forward.  All  the  lines  in  his  face  seemed  to 
yield.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  but  she  drew  away. 

"No,"  she  said.  "You  have  doubted  me.  I  do  not 
blame  you,  but  I  cannot  forget  it.  Besides,  this  is  no  time 
for  such  things.  I  am  afraid,  afraid  for  him.  Ambrose 
knows,  and  there  is  Marcel.  One  of  the  two  will  tell 
Leblun." 

"Christine,"  Hannaway  said  earnestly,  "I  will  do  what 
I  can  to  help.  If  I  can  save  him  I  will,  but  you  must 
forgive  me." 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  Her  face  had  certainly 
grown  softer.  "But  you  cannot  really  care,"  she  said 
doubtfully.  "I  am  only  half  educated.  I  have  done 
strange  things  all  my  life.  I  am  selfish,  vain,  thought- 
less. You  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  person  I  am. 
It  is  just  a  fancy  of  yours.  You  will  outgrow  it." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Fancy,"  he  repeated  reflectively. 
"There  is  some  fancy  at  the  root  of  every  passion. 
Christine,  do  you  remember  when  I  saw  you  first?" 

She  smiled.  "  It  was  in  the  Place  Madeleine,"  she  said, 
"and  you  gave  me  ten  francs,  or  rather  you  put  it  into 
Chicot's  hat" 


PASSERS-BY  233 

He  nodded.  "I  saw  you  there,  singing  upon  the  curb- 
stone," he  said,  "with  your  hands  behind  you,  and  your 
head  raised  above  all  those  people,  looking  up  to  the  sky. 
I  watched  you  longer  than  you  ever  knew.  I  watched 
you  repulse  those  who  tried  to  talk  to  you.  I  watched  you 
listen  to  their  stupid  gallantries  with  stony  face.  I  saw 
you  give  a  franc  to  a  beggar  woman,  and  smile  at  her,  and 
she  gave  you  a  bunch  of  her  violets.  I  saw  you  go  away, 
walking  with  your  arm  on  Ambrose  Drake's  shoulder, 
toward  the  Champs  Elyse"es,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left,  always  up  to  the  sky,  as  though  the  people 
who  came  and  went,  who  listened  to  your  singing  and 
made  banal  speeches,  had  no  existence  whatever  for  you. 
I  saw  you  again,  in  a  crowd  this  time,  on  the  boulevard. 
I  passed  you  quickly  in  a  motor-car  with  a  friend.  Again 
you  were  singing,  and  again  your  head  was  raised  so  that 
you  saw  nothing  but  the  sky  above  the  tall  buildings.  I 
saw  you  again  pass  along  the  streets,  you  and  Drake, 
with  the  monkey  sitting  on  the  top  of  the  piano  —  the 
strangest  combination,  I  thought,  that  I  had  ever  seen. 
Your  face  was  so  young,  and  yet  you  carried  yourself 
as  one  who  understood  and  despised." 

"And  all  the  time,"  she  murmured,  half  to  herself,  "I 
did  not  know." 

"I  saw  you  in  the  Place  Noire  one  night,"  he  continued. 
"I  saw  how  you  treated  that  young  cub  of  a  French  marquis 


234  PASSERS-BY 

who  called  you  in.  And  I  saw  you  on  the  night  when  the 
gendarmes  came.  I  saw  you  go  calmly  down  the  hill,  and 
I  knew  very  well  that  you  were  helping  some  one  to 
escape.  I  had  been  shot  —  by  accident,  I  fancy  —  but  I 
could  have  raised  the  alarm  if  I  had  chosen.  I  let  you 
go.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  let  you  go.  Since  then  I  have 
looked  and  watched  for  you  and  Ambrose.  I  never  heard 
a  street  piano  without  turning  my  head  to  see.  I  never 
heard  a  girl  singing  but  that  I  made  sure  that  it  was  not 
you.  Then,  one  night,  I  looked  down  from  my  window, 
and  I  saw  what  I  had  been  looking  for  so  long  —  a  street- 
piano,  a  hunchback,  and  a  singing  girl;  and  I  knew, 
although  your  hair  was  no  longer  down  your  back  and 
your  skirts  were  lengthened,  that  it  was  you.  I  rushed 
down,  but  I  was  afraid  to  speak.  You  had  suffered,  I 
could  see  that.  You  looked  tired  of  life,  as  though  its 
buffets  had  been  too  many  for  you.  I  wanted  to  speak 
to  you,  I  wanted  to  know  about  that  man  whom  you 
had  helped  to  escape.  Well,  you  remember  what 
happened." 

She  nodded.  "I  am  sorry,"  she  said  simply.  "You 
can  understand  now  that  we  did  not  wish  to  come  across 
people  who  knew  anything  of  those  days." 

"I  wanted  you  to  know,"  he  said,  "that  this  was  not 
altogether  a  new  thing  with  me.  I  wanted  you  to  know 
that  I  have  carried  about  with  me  for  years  now  the 


PASSERS-BY  235 

thought  of  the  little  girl  who  sang  in  the  Madeleine.  If 
I  was  unreasonable  and  jealous  it  was  because  —  " 

She  stopped  him,  but  there  was  no  anger  in  her  gesture. 
"We  will  forget  that,"  she  said.  "Only,  for  the  present, 
I  must  think,  I  can  think  of  only  one  thing.  Lord  Elling- 
ham  has  been  kind  to  me.  He  was  always  kind  to  me. 
He  must  be  saved  somehow  from  Leblun." 

Hannaway  held  out  his  hand.  "If  I  can  help  I  will," 
he  said.  "It  is  a  dangerous  combination.  It  is  a  danger- 
ous trio  —  Marcel  and  Ambrose,  who  know,  and  Leblun 
who  desires  to  know.  But  we  will  see.  You  think  Am- 
brose is  safe?" 

"I  am  not  sure,"  she  answered.  "Sometimes  I  think 
so.  Sometimes  I  remember  that  he  was  terribly  jealous 
when  I  left  him." 

"Leblun  will  find  him  out,  for  certain,"  Hannaway 
remarked. 

"Ambrose  will  tell  nothing  unless  he  chooses,"  Chris- 
tine answered.  "  He  is  as  clever  as  Leblun  himself.  This 
afternoon  or  to-night  I  shall  go  and  see  him.  If  he  will 
promise  there  will  be  only  Marcel  to  fear.  And  Marcel 
is  hiding,  in  fear  of  his  life." 

"May  I  go  with  you  ?"  Hannaway  asked. 

She  shook  her  head.  "Ambrose  is  strange,"  she  said. 
*'To  see  you  with  me  might  make  him  jealous." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.     The  parlormaid  en- 


236  PASSERS-BY 

tered  a  little  doubtfully.  "There  is  a  person  to  see  you, 
madam."  she  announced,  "a  person  who  was  here  a  few 
nights  ago." 

Christine  turned  to  Hannaway.  "  It  is  Ambrose ! "  she 
exclaimed.  "Please  go!  I  would  rather  that  he  did  not 
see  you  here.  Alice  will  take  you  out  to  the  other  elevator." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  LITTLE  exclamation  broke  from  Christine's  lips 
as  Ambrose  entered  the  room.  It  was  Ambrose, 
indeed,  but  not  the  Ambrose  she  had  known.  He  stood 
before  her  transformed.  The  shaggy  mane  of  hair  had 
been  cropped  by  a  fashionable  barber.  He  wore  dark 
but  well-cut  clothes,  clean  linen,  a  gray  tie  of  fashionable 
pattern.  He  wore  patent  boots,  he  carried  a  stick  and 
gloves.  The  hat  in  his  hand  was  a  black  bowler,  also 
new. 

"Ambrose!"  she  exclaimed.  "Why,  I  scarcely  recog- 
nized you,"  she  added  weakly. 

Ambrose  laughed,  and  his  voice,  at  least,  had  not 
changed.  "I  suppose,"  he  said,  "the  wheel  of  fortune 
spins  to  every  one  some  time.  I  have  been  left  some 
money." 

"You  have  given  up  the  piano  and  the  streets?"  she 
exclaimed. 

"From  necessity,"  he  answered  grimly.  "Those  two 
maniacs  smashed  it  to  pieces  the  other  night,  searching 
for  treasure." 

"What,  in  the  piano?"  she  exclaimed. 

He  nodded.    "They  were  mad,"  he  said  shortly. 


238  PASSERS-BY 

She  motioned  him  to  a  seat.  She  herself  was  ill  at  ease. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  even  as  he  sat  there  she  could  hear 
the  tremulous  dramatic  words  come  throbbing  through 
the  telephone,  telling  the  story  of  that  struggle  in  the 
dark  entry,  of  the  dropping  of  the  knife,  of  the  flight  of 
the  two  men  into  the  darkness.  What  a  different  person 
it  was  who  sat  there  in  black  coat  and  well-creased 
trousers!  Even  his  deformity  was  less  apparent. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "what  you  are  going  to  do.  Am- 
brose," she  cried,  with  sudden  fear,  "you  have  not  been 
taking  money  to  betray  —  Tell  me,  Ambrose,  quickly  I 
Has  this  man  Jacques  Leblun  found  you  out?" 

"What,  the  French  detective?"  he  asked  calmly. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "Have  you  seen  him?  Don't 
dare  to  tell  me  that  you  have  taken  money  from  him ! " 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "I  have  not  seen  him,  or 
taken  his  money,"  he  answered.  "Is  he  over  here?  Ah, 
I  can  guess !  He  is  over  here  after  Marcel." 

"Worse  than  that,"  she  answered.  "He  is  watching 
Marcel.  He  is  watching  to  see  to  whom  Marcel  appeals. 
He  has  not  forgotten  the  stranger  who  escaped  from  the 
Place  Noire  that  awful  night." 

Ambrose  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  his  eyes  grew 
brighter.  "So  Leblun  is  still  on  the  trail,"  he  said  softly. 
"It  is  very  well.  It  fits  in  with  what  I  was  going  to  say 
to  you." 


PASSERS-BY  239 

"Go  on,"  she  said.    "Tell  me  what  it  is." 

Ambrose  looked  at  her  steadfastly  for  several  moments. 
Christine  was  pale.  There  were  dark  rings  under  her 
eyes,  and  her  mouth  drooped  wearily.  As  he  looked,  his 
own  eyes  grew  soft. 

"Christine,"  he  said,  "you  have  lost  a  good  deal  of  your 
youth  in  this  sad  city.  There  were  days,  even  after  we  had 
started  on  the  search,  when  you  were  gay,  when  you  danced 
for  the  love  of  it,  when  the  laughter  was  in  your  eyes  and 
the  color  in  your  cheeks.  You  are  losing  your  youth, 
Christine,  in  this  cursed  city." 

"It  is  not  that,"  she  answered.    "I  am  afraid." 

"What  of?"  he  demanded. 

"It  is  the  shadow  of  those  awful  days,"  she  answered, 
"which  seems  to  rest  upon  us  still.  The  coming  of  these 
men  has  stirred  up  all  the  old  horror.  You  know  what  I 
fear,  Ambrose.  I  am  afraid  of  Leblun.  I  am  afraid  of 
Marcel.  You  know  why." 

"  He  is  only  your  stepfather,"  Ambrose  muttered. 

"He  has  been  good  to  me,"  she  answered.  "He  too  has 
repented  of  those  days.  He  too  sought  to  escape  from  the 
memory  of  them.  And  now  they  are  tracking  him  down. 
They  must  not,  Ambrose.  Oh,  I  mean  it!  They  must 
not!" 

"You  are  afraid,"  he  asked  calmly,  "lest  you  lose  your 
newly  found  wealth,  your  beautiful  clothes,  your  carriage  ? 


240  PASSERS-BY 

You  are  afraid  lest  you  be  driven  out  into  the  streets,  to 
plod  once  more  by  the  side  of  the  piano,  to  sing  while 
Chicot  collects  the  pennies?  Is  that  it?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "It  is  not  only  that.  I  am  not 
so  altogether  selfish.  It  is  for  his  sake,  too." 

"Listen,"  Ambrose  said.  "The  days  of  the  street-piano 
are  over.  It  is  smashed.  Its  notes  are  dumb.  I  shall 
never  strike  them  again.  I  too  have  wealth.  I  can  save 
even  him." 

"How?"  she  exclaimed. 

"Never  mind,"  he  answered.  "Don't  ask  me  too  many 
questions.  You  may  learn  things  which  you  will  be  sorry 
to  hear.  There  remain  now  only  you,  Marcel,  and  myself 
who  could  point  to  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  and  say  to 
Jacques  Leblun,  'There  is  the  man  you  seek!'  I  say 
there  remain  only  you,  Marcel,  and  myself.  I  should 
have  said  there  remains  only  myself,  for  I  can  keep  Marcel 
silent." 

"You  mean  it?"   she  exclaimed  breathlessly. 

"I  mean  it,"  he  answered.  "Now  I  will  go  a  little 
farther  still.  I  will  tell  you,  Christine,  that  it  rests  with 
you  alone." 

"With  me?"  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  save  him,  or  to  hand  him  over  to  Jacques 
Leblun,"  Ambrose  declared.  "Look  at  me.  I  am  a  poor, 
unsightly  mortal,  yet  you  know  that  the  only  days  of  hap* 


PASSERS-BY  241 

piness  I  have  ever  enjoyed  were  when  we  tramped  together 
and  sang  for  our  living.  Alone,  Chicot  and  I  are  miser- 
able, whether  we  are  rich  or  poor,  hungry  or  fed.  Come 
back  to  us,  Christine.  Your  life  shall  be  different,  I  prom- 
ise you.  I  ask  no  more  than  to  be  your  humble  slave, 
your  courier,  your  faithful  attendant.  You  shall  travel 
where  you  will,  how  you  will.  I  have  money,  money  at 
last.  It  is  yours  to  do  what  you  will  with.  Only  come 
with  us.  Then  I  promise  you  that  he  shall  be  safe." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  faltered.  "You  do  not 
mean  that  I  shall  come  back  once  more  and  sing  in  the 
streets,  that  I  shall  give  up  —  " 

"You  will  give  up  nothing,"  Ambrose  declared.  "There 
is  no  need  for  it.  For  every  shilling  that  you  spend  now 
you  shall  spend  a  sovereign.  For  every  carriage  that  you 
own  now  you  shall  have  a  dozen.  You  shall  be  a  queen. 
You  shall  have  prettier  clothes  than  any  other  woman, 
jewels  and  flowers  and  all  the  luxuries  which  life  can 
fashion.  Only  you  must  come  away  to  some  other  country. 
You  must  live  near  Chicot  and  me,  with  no  one  to  creep 
nearer  your  heart.  If  you  do  that  he  shall  go  free." 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  she  asked,  with  a  sudden  appre- 
hension of  the  things  that  were  working  in  his  brain.  "  If 
I  refuse?" 

"If  you  refuse,"  he  answered,  "I  shall  go  to  this  Mon- 
sieur Jacques  Leblun.  I  shall  say  to  him:  'Walk  a  little 

16 


242  PASSERS-BY 

way  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you  the  man  who  wheeled 
my  barrow  from  the  Place  Noire  in  the  clothes  of  a  work- 
man, the  man  whom  we  sheltered,  and  whose  escape  we 
planned.  He  is  here,  an  aristocrat,  a  rich  man  to-day, 
known  and  honored  throughout  the  country,  and  yet  the 
associate,  once  upon  a  time,  of  a  herd  of  assassins,  the  man 
who  shot  a  gendarme  through  the  heart,  the  man  who 
has  cheated  a  French  prison,  the  man  whose  life  has  been 
a  lie.'" 

She  looked  at  him  as  though  fascinated.  There  was 
something  of  horror  in  her  distended  eyes.  "It  is  a  bar- 
gain, then,  which  you  propose?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  a  bargain,"  he  admitted.  "Why  not?  What 
other  chance  have  I  ?  You  threw  me  over  like  a  discarded 
garment  when  the  day  arrived  that  you  could  do  without 
me.  Why  should  I  shelter  myself  beneath  false  illusions  ? 
To  you  I  am  only  Ambrose  the  dwarf,  Ambrose  the  poor 
cripple,  who  kept  you  and  fed  you  when  things  went  awry. 
How  else  can  I  win  for  myself  a  few  hours  daily  of  your 
presence,  a  few  kind  words,  the  glorious  knowledge  that 
you  are  near?  No  other  way,  Christine.  I  know  it  well, 
and  that  is  why  I  say  that  you,  if  you  will,  shall  buy  his 
safety.  You  shall  buy  his  safety,  or  you  shall  sign  his 
death- warrant." 

Christine  shrank  back  in  her  chair.  This  was  more 
awful  than  anything  which  she  had  feared. 


PASSERS-BY  243 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  went  on.  "I  ask  for 
no  more,  to  be  no  more  to  you  than  I  have  been  hither- 
to. I  am  content  with  that.  It  may  seem  little  to  you. 
For  me  it  makes  life  a  heaven.  You  know  it.  You 
believe  me.  If  you  hesitate  for  a  moment,  send  your 
thoughts  backward.  Ask  yourself  what  has  been  the 
text  of  my  life  through  the  long  days,  through  the 
weary  months,  through  the  slow,  crawling  years.  You, 
Christine!  To  keep  you  safe,  to  keep  you  free  from 
harm,  to  minister  to  your  wants,  to  win  a  poor  word  of 
gratitude  or  a  smile.  A  dog's  life,  perhaps.  Why  not  ? 
What  other  life  is  there  for  me?  Come,  what  do  you 
say?" 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "that  if  I  tell  you  that  I  do 
not  wish  to  come  away  with  you,  that  I  wish  to  stay  here, 
that  I  have  other  thoughts  and  other  hopes,  do  you  mean 
that  you  will  still  drag  me  away  to  be  your  companion, 
that  you  will  do  this  or  betray  him?" 

"I  do  mean  it,"  he  answered  firmly.  "I  mean  it  so 
surely  as  you  and  I  are  now  speaking  to  each  other  words 
of  naked  truth." 

"If  I  refuse  —  "  she  faltered. 

"If  you  refuse,"  he  interrupted,  "I  search  for  this 
Monsieur  Jacques  Leblun.  I  say  to  him,  'Come  with 
me,  and  I  will  show  you  the  man  you  came  here  to  seek.' 
Oh,  I  know,  and  he  knows  that  I  know !  He  watches  me. 


244  PASSERS-BY 

He  watches  Marcel.  What  do  you  say,  Christine  ?  What 
have  you  to  say  to  Chicot  and  to  me?" 

Her  head  dropped  into  her  hands.  "I  cannot  tell,"  she 
moaned.  "I  think  you  are  cruel.  I  do  not  want  to  go 
away  with  you.  I  want  to  stay  here." 

"Want  to  stay  here!"  he  echoed  scornfully.  "To 
stay  here  in  this  pall  of  smoke,  under  this  gray  sky,  in 
this  sad  city !  It  is  a  disease,  then,  which  bids  you  stay. 
It  is  not  life,  it  is  not  freedom,  it  is  not  anything  worth 
having.  Tell  me,  Christine,  will  you  come?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  made  a 
resolution.  "You  ask  me  too  suddenly,  Ambrose,"  she 
said.  "  I  cannot  answer  you.  Give  me  a  few  hours,  until 
morning,  say,  to  think  it  over." 

He  rose  from  his  chair.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  "I  will 
give  you  until  to-morrow.  I  cannot  give  you  longer,  for 
Marcel  is  in  a  strange  way.  He  is  half  mad  with  drink 
and  fear.  I  am  afraid  every  moment  that  he  will  blurt 
out  who  he  is  and  all  he  knows.  There  are  spies  around 
him  at  every  corner,  if  he  did  but  know  it  —  spies,  doubt- 
less, of  the  great  Jacques  Leblun." 

"Till  to-morrow  morning,"  Christine  faltered.  "Let  me 
have  till  then,  at  least" 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

MONSIEUR  Jacques  Leblun  was  comfortably  en- 
sconced in  a  large  easy  chair  drawn  up  before 
the  fire  in  the  small  smoking-room  adjoining  the  bar  of 
the  Altona  Hotel.  He  held  in  his  hand  several  half  sheets 
of  paper,  the  contents  of  which  he  had  been  carefully 
reading,  not,  apparently,  for  the  first  time.  One  by  one, 
as  he  had  finished  with  them,  he  laid  them  on  his  knee, 
until  at  last  the  little  pile  was  complete.  Then,  with  a 
faint  sigh,  which  might  have  meant  either  satisfaction  or 
despair,  he  tore  them  into  small  pieces,  and  threw  them 

into  the  fire.     From  a  case  of  curiously  chased  silver  he 

/ 

selected  a  cigarette,  lit  it,  and  began  to  smoke,  very  slowly 
and  very  thoughtfully.  His  eyes,  as  usual,  seemed  half 
closed,  certainly  his  head  was  turned  away  from  both  of 
the  doors  to  the  room,  and  yet,  curiously  enough,  without 
turning  his  head  or  even  looking  away  from  the  fire,  he 
addressed  the  man  who  had  entered  from  the  hotel  side 
and  was  making  his  way  toward  the  door  which  commun- 
icated with  the  private  suites  of  apartments. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hannaway?"  he  said. 

Gilbert  Hannaway  stopped   short.     He  came  slowly 


246  PASSERS-BY 

toward  the  fireplace,  and  for  the  first  time  recognized  the 
little  man  in  the  easy  chair.  "  Mr.  Leblun ! "  he  exclaimed. 

Jacques  Leblun  nodded  his  head  thoughtfully.  "Come 
and  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes,"  he  said.  "You  will  take 
a  drink  with  me,  perhaps." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  hesitated.  Leblun  turned  toward 
him.  His  forehead  was  a  little  wrinkled.  Even  as  he 
spoke  he  stifled  a  yawn. 

"I  am  tired  of  your  sad  country,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  no  friends  here,  and  I  am  lonely.  In  Paris, 
at  this  hour,  I  would  be  sitting  in  the  Cafe"  de  la  Paix,  and 
friends  would  come  and  go  all  the  time,  friends  with 
whom  I  speak  for  a  moment,  or  only  grasp  their  hands 
perhaps,  or  give  them  a  cheerful  salutation.  But  here  I 
am  alone,  and  I  am  a  man  who  loves  company.  Remem- 
ber Ventente  cordiale.  Be  kind  to  the  foreigner,  forced  to 
sojourn  for  a  few  days  among  your  fogs.  Take  a  chair 
here,  and  talk  with  me." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  divested  himself  of  his  overcoat,  and 
drew  an  easy  chair  up  to  Leblun's  side.  "I  was  on  my 
way  to  my  rooms,"  he  said,  "to  indulge  in  the  luxury, 
unknown  in  your  caf£s,  of  a  cup  of  afternoon  tea.  If  you 
will  allow  me  I  will  take  it  with  you.  You  have  been 
destroying  letters,  I  see.  It  is  always  rather  a  sad  task." 

Leblun  smiled  faintly.  "There  are  things  which  are 
sadder,"  he  answered,  "and  one  of  them  is  to  have  to 


PASSERS-BY  247 

admit  failure  in  anything  one  undertakes.  Personally," 
he  continued,  assuming  a  somewhat  retrospective  air, 
"I  have  not  often  had  to  confess  myself  beaten.  This 
afternoon  I  am  in  that  sad  position.  I  think  that  before 
I  go  to  bed  to-night  I  shall  ask  that  exceedingly  assiduous 
waiter  who  ministers  so  cheerfully  to  our  wants  to  bring 
me  the  Continental  time-table.  In  short,  I  fear  that  there 
remains  for  me  nothing  but  to  look  for  a  train  back  to  my 
beloved  Paris." 

"You  surprise  me,  Monsieur  Leblun,"  Hannaway  ad- 
mitted, with  impassive  face.  "  Failure  is  a  thing  which  one 
has  not  learned  to  associate  with  your  name.  Neverthe- 
less, if  what  you  say  is  really  the  truth,  I  do  not  doubt  but 
that  you  have  run  up  against  a  problem  impossible  of 
solution." 

Once  more  Leblun  sighed.  His  eyes  were  still  fixed 
upon  those  smouldering  pieces  of  paper.  "Frankly,  my 
dear  Monsieur  Hannaway,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  that  I  have 
done  all  that  an  intelligent  man  could  do.  I  have  re- 
constructed my  story.  Listen  to  it  for  a  moment  with  me. 
Ah !  Your  tea  arrives,  I  see.  I  trust  that  you  find  it  in 
order.  Permit  me  to  drink  your  health  in  another  cup  of 
coffee." 

He  paid  the  waiter,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  were 
once  more  alone. 

"I  was  speaking,"  Leblun  continued,  "of  a  reconstruc- 


248  PASSERS-BY 

tion.  All  that  Is  so  simple.  We  see,  flying  from  that  scene 
of  violence  in  the  Place  Noire  a  few  years  ago,  three  per- 
sons and  a  monkey.  We  see  a  man,  the  man  whose 
identity  we  wish  to  solve,  clad  in  the  garb  of  a  workman, 
pushing  a  street-piano.  Hastening  along  by  his  side,  we 
see  the  hunchback,  to  whom  that  musical  instrument  be- 
longs. On  the  other  side  of  it  walks  a  child  —  girl  perhaps  I 
should  call  her  —  who  only  a  few  weeks  before  had  thrown 
in  her  lot  with  that  dwarf,  and  was  singing  in  the  streets 
for  her  living.  On  the  top  of  the  piano,  reclining  in  a 
basket,  and  rudely  shaken,  I  fear,  by  the  speed  at  which 
that  barrow  is  being  pushed,  reposes  the  monkey  Chicot. 
They  turn  the  corner  of  the  Place  Noire,  they  are  seen 
somewhere  in  the  Rue  Pigalle,  there  is  a  rumor  that  they 
pass  through  the  Rue  de  Faubourg  Montmartre.  After 
that,  silence.  Space  swallows  them  up.  They  are  gone." 

Leblun  ceased  with  a  little  sigh.  Hannaway  produced 
his  cigarette  case. 

"You  smoke,  I  see,"  he  remarked.  "Permit  me."  He 
lit  a  cigarette,  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Circumstances,  as  you  know,"  Leblun  continued,  "  in- 
duced one  to  take  once  more  an  interest  in  that  somewhat 
remarkable  trio.  One  comes  to  London.  One  follows  a 
fugitive,  who  should  surely  be  as  eager  as  I  myself  to  dis- 
cover these  mysterious  persons.  The  hunchback,  well, 
that  is  easy.  He  reveals  himself  without  the  slightest 


PASSERS-BY  249 

trouble.  One  learns  that  from  the  moment  he  turned  the 
corner  of  that  square  until  to-day  he  has  been  to  all  ap- 
pearances no  better  off  for  his  little  adventure.  He  has 
tramped  the  streets,  he  has  thumped  out  his  miserable  at- 
tempt at  music,  he  has  lived  and  drunk  and  starved,  being 
cold  or  warm  according  to  the  vagaries  of  that  section  of  the 
public  who  are  in  the  habit  of  dispensing  copper  coins  to 
itinerant  musicians.  To  conclude  with  the  hunchback,  it 
is  only,  curiously  enough,  this  very  day  that  a  sudden 
change  comes  over  him.  This  morning,  at  an  early  hour, 
he  presents  himself  at  various  establishments  devoted  to 
the  clothing  of  those  who  need  their  clothes  quickly,  and 
are  not  scrupulously  particular  as  to  fit.  In  other  words, 
early  this  morning  our  friend  Ambrose  Drake,  with  money 
in  both  pockets,  throws  aside  his  rags,  purchases  for  him- 
self the  outfit  of  a  gentleman  at  large,  saunters  through 
the  streets  respectably  attired,  a  new  hat  on  his  head,  new 
gloves  in  his  hand,  new  boots  on  his  feet,  new  clothing  to 
the  last  stitch  on  his  body.  Attired  in  such  a  fashion,  he 
sallies  out  to  pay  a  call  upon  a  young  lady." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  turned  his  head  slowly.  It  was  not 
long  since  he  had  left  Christine.  This  man  was  indeed 
wonderful. 

"So  much  for  the  hunchback,"  Leblun  continued.  "Of 
the  mysterious  stranger,  alas !  one  learns  nothing.  Indeed 
he  seems  to  have  vanished  into  space.  The  monkey,  I 


260  PASSERS-BY 

rejoice  to  say,  flourishes,  and  from  the  fact  that  he  ate  a 
hearty  meal  after  his  master's  assumption  of  the  garb  of 
respectability  we  will  conclude  that  his  future  is  assured. 
We  come  to  the  girl." 

Once  more  Hannaway,  who  had  resolved  not  to  open 
his  lips  until  his  companion  had  finished,  stole  a  glance  at 
him.  There  was  no  increase  of  animation  in  Leblun's 
manner.  He  still  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  watching  the 
blue  smoke  of  his  somewhat  odoriferous  cigarette. 

"Here,"  Leblun  continued,  "we  must  permit  to  our- 
selves the  license  of  a  little  imagination.  We  learn  that 
for  years  the  girl  and  the  hunchback  tramped  side  by  side 
along  the  highways  and  the  byways  of  the  Continent 
They  tramped  through  France,  they  tramped  through 
Germany,  they  were  heard  of,  even,  in  that  home  of  all 
mendicants  —  the  north  of  Italy.  Then  at  last,  not  so 
long  ago,  they  came  to  England.  One  hears  of  them  in 
London.  Things,  apparently,  have  not  gone  well  with 
them.  Ambrose  is  in  rags.  The  girl  walks  as  one  whose 
interest  in  life  is  finished,  in  soiled  clothes,  in  gaping  boots, 
broken-spirited,  broken-hearted.  And  then,  one  day,  presto, 
the  magician's  wand  !  One  looks  again.  One  sees  the  girl 
in  a  handsome  apartment,  with  carriages  and  motors,  with 
her  own  French  maid,  clad  in  furs  and  silks  and  laces,  a 
customer  at  the  best  shops,  a  person  with  apparently  a 
limitless  purse.  The  hunchback's  days  of  prosperity  have 


PASSERS-BY  251 

not  yet  come.  Still  he  tramps  the  gutters.  The  mud 
from  the  wheels  of  his  quondam  companion's  motor 
splashes  him  as  he  makes  sad  music  in  the  forlorn  streets. 
One  asks  oneself,  whence  her  prosperity?" 

Leblun  looked  down  from  the  ceiling.  He  seemed  to 
have  fixed  his  attention  upon  one  particular  scrap  of 
smouldering  paper. 

"One  is  not  kept  long  in  doubt,"  he  went  on.  "One 
hears  of  the  visits  at  her  apartment  of  a  mysterious  gentle- 
man. She  is  seen  with  him  at  luncheons  and  dinners. 
There  is  even  talk  of  a  trip  to  Paris.  The  truth  is  very 
soon  apparent.  How  she  first  attracted  him  one  cannot 
tell.  She  has  her  share  of  good  looks.  It  may  even  have 
been  pity  which  first  attracted  his  notice.  But  we  are 
able  to  assure  ourselves  with  every  certainty  that  the  sing- 
ing girl  Christine  has  become  the  mistress  of  the  Marquis 
of  Ellingham." 

"  It  is  a  damned  lie ! "  Hannaway  thundered  out 

Leblun  turned  his  head,  turned  it  as  swiftly  as  the 
head  of  a  mechanical  toy.  His  hand  flashed  out.  He 
was  suddenly  alert.  "Then  why,"  he  asked,  "is  she  liv- 
ing upon  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham's  money?  Tell  me 
that.  You  say  that  she  is  not  his  mistress,  and  you  say  it 
with  conviction.  Then  what  remains?" 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

THE  two  men  sat  looking  at  each  other  for  several 
breathless  seconds.  Hannaway  felt  all  the  angry 
impotence  of  a  man  caught  in  a  trap.  His  face  was  still 
being  raked  by  Leblun's  merciless  eyes.  He  had  betrayed 
the  secret  which  he  was  so  anxious  to  guard.  Leblun  had 
played  with  him  as  with  a  child. 

"So  you  deny  my  very  natural  inference?"  Leblun 
said,  breaking  the  silence  at  last.  "You  believe  that 
Mademoiselle  de  Lanson  has  some  other  claim  upon 
Lord  Ellingham?  It  may  be  so.  You  may  be  right, 
my  friend." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  Hannaway  said  slowly. 
"It  was  foolish  of  me  to  discuss  it  with  you." 

Leblun  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Between  comrades," 
he  said,  "  what  does  it  matter  ?  To  talk  is  always  interest- 
ing. It  would  astonish  you  to  know  it,  my  dear  friend,  but 
I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  you  have  not  supplied  me  with 
the  missing  clue.  By  the  by,  have  you  any  acquaintance 
with  Lord  Ellingham?" 

"None,"  Hannaway  answered  briefly. 

"A  very  interesting  personality,"  Leblun  said.    "I  read 


PASSERS-BY  253 

his  speeches  always.  A  friend  of  France,  too.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  meet  him." 

Hannaway  rose  to  his  feet.  "Mr.  Leblun,"  he  said,  "I 
will  wish  you  good  afternoon." 

"  If  you  must  go,"  Leblun  remarked. 

Hannaway  left  the  room,  made  a  circuit  of  the  building, 
and  issued  again  into  the  courtyard.  He  called  a  hansom, 
and  was  driven  at  once  to  Cavendish  Square.  The  major- 
domo  of  the  household  came  forward  to  answer  his  eager 
inquiries.  The  marquis  was  not  at  home.  He  had  lunched 
out.  He  was  probably  now  at  his  club,  or  on  his  way 
down  to  the  House. 

Hannaway  stepped  back  into  his  hansom,  and  drove  to 
Pall  Mall.  The  doorkeeper  of  the  very  exclusive  club  to 
which  Lord  Ellingham  belonged  showed  him  into  a 
waiting-room. 

"Any  card,  sir?"  he  asked.  "His  lordship  is  in  the 
reading-room,  I  believe." 

"I  have  no  card,"  Hannaway  answered,  "but  if  you  will 
tell  Lord  Ellingham  that  my  name  is  Hannaway,  and  that 
I  wish  to  see  him  on  very  important  business,  I  think  he 
will  come." 

Hannaway  was  left  alone  for  almost  ten  minutes.  He 
smoked  one  of  the  cigarettes  with  which  the  room  was 
lavishly  supplied,  took  up  the  papers  one  by  one,  and 
threw  them  down.  Christine  would  never  forgive  him, 


254  PASSERS-BY 

he  was  sure  of  that.  It  was  he  who  had  betrayed  this 
man.  Fool  that  he  was,  to  have  measured  his  wits  for  one 
second  against  the  wits  of  Jacques  Leblun ! 

Lord  Ellingham  came  in  at  last.  His  manner  was  per- 
fectly composed,  and  he  showed  no  signs  of  hurry.  Han- 
naway  looked  at  him  in  admiration.  The  man  must  know 
that  he  was  living  on  the  brink  of  a  volcano.  Neither  his 
face  nor  his  manner  showed  any  signs  of  it  He  greeted 
his  visitor  civilly,  but  without  enthusiasm,  and  waited  to 
hear  what  he  had  to  say. 

"I  have  come,"  Hannaway  said  quietly,  "because  I 
think  you  ought  to  be  told  of  the  presence  in  this  country 
of  a  man  named  Jacques  Leblun,  and  also  the  reason  for 
his  presence." 

"I  am  perfectly  well  aware  of  it,"  the  marquis  answered. 
"At  the  same  time,  I  shall  be  happy  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say." 

"  We  need  not  play  with  words,"  Hannaway  said.  "  We 
both  know  a  little.  We  can  both  assume  a  little.  Leblun 
came  here  to  discover  the  man  who  escaped  from  the  Place 
Noire  on  the  night  of  the  raid.  You  were  that  man,  Lord 
Ellingham.  It  is  you  for  whom  Jacques  Leblun  is 
searching." 

Lord  Ellingham  stood  quite  still.  He  made  no  sign. 
His  cheeks,  indeed,  had  no  color  to  lose.  "Well,"  he 
asked  quietly,  "have  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that?  Or 


PASSERS-BY  255 

have  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that  you  have  already  told 
Leblun?" 

"I  had  no  thought  of  anything  of  the  kind,"  Hannaway 
exclaimed  hastily.  "But  I  want  to  explain  to  you  some- 
thing that  has  happened.  Leblun  laid  a  trap  for  me,  and 
I  fell  into  it.  He  spoke  of  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson.  He 
spoke  of  her  as  a  beggar,  and  he  spoke  of  her  life  to-day. 
He  smiled  —  an  irritating,  maddening  smile.  Mademoi- 
selle de  Lanson  had  done  well  for  herself,  she  had  for  her 
lover  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham!  He  said  this  with  his 
eyes  watching  my  face.  I  told  him  that  he  lied.  I  was  a 
fool  —  it  was  so  obvious  a  trick.  And  when  I  flung  the 
lie  in  his  teeth  all  that  he  did  was  to  smile.  Then  why,  he 
asked,  does  the  money  of  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  pro- 
vide luxury  for  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson?  I  could  not 
answer.  He  knew  that  I  could  not  answer." 

Lord  Ellingham  was  silent  for  several  moments.  "I 
wonder,"  he  remarked,  "how  he  ever  got  hold  of  my  name 
at  all?" 

"He  traced  Christine,"  Hannaway  said.  "Then,  of 
course,  he  searched  for  the  explanation  of  her  altered  cir- 
cumstances. His  inquiries  led  him  to  you.  Perhaps  he 
was  not  absolutely  certain  that  his  explanation  was  not 
really  the  truth.  At  any  rate,  he  tried  it  on  me,  and  I  fell." 

"Does  Mademoiselle  de  Lanson  know  this?"  the  mar- 
quis asked. 


256  PASSERS-BY 

"She  does  not,  as  yet,"  Hannaway  answered. 

"Keep  it  to  yourself,"  the  marquis  ordered.  "Leblun 
may  come  and  see  me.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  be  prepared." 

He  looked  at  his  visitor  as  though  expecting  him  to  go. 
Hannaway  hesitated. 

"If  I  could  be  of  any  assistance,  Lord  Ellingham,"  he 
suggested,  almost  timidly. 

Lord  Ellingham  shook  his  head.  His  face  showed  no 
signs  of  fear,  or  emotion  of  any  sort.  "Pray  do  not  dis- 
turb yourself,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said.  "I  need  not,  I 
know,  mince  words  with  you.  If  this  thing  has  to  come, 
I  must  meet  it.  Afterward  —  well,  it  does  n't  much  mat- 
ter. You  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure.  It  is  more  than  time 
that  I  was  on  my  way  down  to  the  House." 

The  marquis,  as  was  his  daily  custom,  walked  from  his 
club  toward  the  Houses  of  Parliament.  Acquaintances 
whom  he  met,  and  whom  he  unfailingly  recognized,  no- 
ticed nothing  altered  in  his  demeanor,  except,  perhaps,  a 
slightly  added  graciousness,  a  smile  more  noticeable  than 
usual.  Yet,  indeed,  he  walked  very  much  like  a  man  in 
a  dream.  All  the  time  that  one  terrible  question  seemed 
to  be  ringing  in  his  ears.  When  would  it  be  ?  How  soon 
would  the  blow  fall?  Would  he  be  allowed  to  reach  the 
House,  to  make  his  speech,  to  take  up  the  cudgels  once 
more  on  behalf  of  his  hard-pressed  party?  How  soon? 


PASSERS-BY  257 

he  asked  himself.  Would  he  be  allowed  to  return  home  ? 
Would  he  see  his  wife  again  ?  His  face  grew  gray,  and  his 
lips  quivered,  as  he  thought  for  a  moment  of  the  shock 
this  thing  would  be  to  her.  There  was  no  way  to  avoid 
it  now.  Leblun  was  on  his  track.  Nothing  in  the  world, 
to  a  past  master  like  Leblun,  was  so  easy  as  to  bridge  over 
the  years,  to  trace  his  career  back,  step  by  step,  to  that 
terrible  night  when  he  fled  from  the  Place  Noire.  He  had 
no  defense,  there  was  no  hole  for  escape.  He  was  guilty. 
He  was  the  man  who  should  have  suffered  in  prison,  as 
Marcel  had  suffered.  He  was  the  man,  indeed,  whom  the 
authorities  had  thought  they  were  punishing.  There  was 
no  hope,  he  told  himself;  nothing  to  do  but  to  keep  a 
brave  face  to  the  world,  and  perhaps  —  But  that  he 
must  think  of  more  seriously.  The  ethics  of  suicide  had 
always  interested  him.  Surely,  if  any  one  was  justified  in 
escaping  from  life,  he  was. 

A  beggar  with  a  tray  of  matches  touched  him  upon  the 
arm.  "  Only  one  penny  a  box,  sir.  Buy  a  box,  guvnor." 

The  marquis  shook  his  head.  The  man  still  kept  his 
place.  They  were  passing  a  four-wheel  cab,  drawn  up 
against  the  curb.  The  beggar  leaned  over  his  tray.  "Step 
into  that  cab  for  one  moment,  sir,"  he  muttered  under  his 
breath.  "It  is  Marcel  who  waits  for  you  there." 

The  man  glided  away.  Lord  Ellingham  turned  invol- 
untarily toward  the  cab  drawn  up  against  the  curb.  In- 

17 


258  PASSERS-BY 

side  was  a  furtive  figure  with  black-rimmed  eyes  and 
ghastly  face.  It  was  Marcel,  hiding  among  the  cushions, 
afraid  to  look  out,  and  yet  eager  to  attract  his  attention. 
Lord  Ellingham  paused.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
crossed  the  pavement  and  stepped  into  the  cab. 


CHAPTER  XXXIH 

was  a  change  in  Marcel  which  Lord  Elling- 
JL  ham,  surveying  him  critically,  found  somewhat  sur- 
prising. He  was  well  dressed,  although  the  clothes  were 
ready-made,  and  a  certain  elegance  of  bearing,  for  which 
in  the  old  days  he  had  been  distinguished,  had  reasserted 
itself.  He  was  clean-shaven,  his  hair  was  cut,  and  even 
his  nails  had  been  manicured.  He  was  conscious  of  his 
companion's  somewhat  surprised  scrutiny,  and  his  lips 
parted  in  a  slight  smile. 

"My  consideration  for  you,  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "has 
led  me  to  take  this  unusual  care  with  my  person.  I  have 
decided  to  forget  the  untoward  events  of  the  last  few  days. 
I  have  decided  to  believe  that  I  am  free  from  pursuit,  and 
that  I  am  now  tete-a-tete  with  a  generous  friend.  It  is  the 
the  optimism  of  my  race,  you  see  —  a  quality  worth 
cultivating." 

"I  congratulate  you,"  Lord  Ellingham  said  dryly.  "I 
do  not  exactly  know  why  I  accepted  your  pressing  invita- 
tion, but  since  I  am  here,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  why  you 
extended  it  to  me." 

"Willingly,"  Marcel  answered.    "This  man  is  going  to 


260  PASSERS-BY 

drive  us  slowly  along  the  Embankment.  I  have  engaged 
him  for  half  an  hour.  A  portion  of  the  time  has  elapsed 
already.  First,  then,  I  want  to  tell  you  that  we  have  failed 
to  discover  those  four  million  francs,  or  any  trace  of 
them." 

"You  and  Pierre?"  Lord  Ellingham  remarked  quietly. 

Marcel  looked  at  him  swiftly.  "Pierre  and  I,"  he  re- 
peated. "The  money  is  not  in  the  place  where  it  was 
hidden.  The  hunchback  we  find  still  a  beggar  upon  the 
streets.  The  girl  alone  seems  to  have  prospered." 

"From  which  you  conclude?"  Lord  Ellingham  asked. 

"It  is  the  girl  who  found  the  money,"  Marcel  declared. 
"Listen.  There  is  another  reason  for  believing  this.  An- 
atoile  —  you  remember  Anatoile  —  he  too  knew  of  the 
four  million  francs.  To  whom  did  he  go?  He  did  not 
come  to  you.  He  did  not  waste  time  with  the  hunchback. 
He  went  to  the  girl,  and  in  her  rooms  he  was  found 
murdered." 

Lord  Ellingham  frowned  slightly.  "I  am  perfectly 
convinced,"  he  said,  "that  the  girl  knows  nothing  of  the 
four  million  francs." 

Marcel  laughed  hardly.  "My  friend,"  he  said,  "you 
were  always  easily  deceived  by  women.  Christine's 
mother  twisted  you  round  her  little  finger.  Christine  her- 
self, I  have  no  doubt,  could  do  the  same.  How  else  do 
you  suppose  that  she  lives  in  luxury,  drives  in  carriages, 


PASSERS-BY  261 

wears  a  string  of  pearls,  lives,  in  short,  as  a  lady  of  wealth  ? 
Of  course  there  is  another  way." 

Lord  Ellingham  stopped  him.  "You  forget,"  he  said, 
"that  Christine  is  my  stepdaughter.  She  lives  on  an  al- 
lowance from  me." 

Marcel  laughed  once  more.  "My  dear  Marquis,"  he 
said,  "  that  may  be,  or  it  may  not  be.  Who  cares  ?  Money 
I  must  have,  not  a  little  money,  but  a  great  deal.  I 
want  my  share  of  that  four  million  francs.  I  want  it  either 
from  you  or  from  her." 

"Neither  of  us,"  the  marquis  declared,  "knows  anything 
whatever  of  the  money  you  speak  of." 

Marcel  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  repeat,"  he  said, 
"  that  there  are  four  million  francs  to  be  accounted  for.  I 
hold  you  and  her  responsible.  Half  of  that  sum  I  demand. 
I  demand  it  from  you,  and  if  you  refuse  it  me  I  shall  de- 
mand it  from  her.  If  you  both  refuse,  if  I  see  no  chance 
of  getting  it,  then  I  will  earn  my  pardon.  I  will  seek  for 
Mr.  Jacques  Leblun.  I  will  say  to  him :  '  Here  is  the  man 
who  can  solve  for  you  the  mystery  of  that  house  in  the 
Place  Noire.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  what  I  said  when 
I  was  on  trial  was  the  truth.  Come  with  me,  and  I  will 
show  you  the  man  who  should  have  stood  by  my  side  in 
the  dock.'" 

Lord  Ellingham  was  thoughtful.  He  looked  out  of  the 
window  at  the  great  sluggish  river.  "I  am  not  sure,"  he 


262  PASSERS-BY 

said,  "  whether  it  would  pay  me  to  buy  your  silence.  There 
is  the  hunchback  too,  who  knows.  He  is  a  strange  crea- 
ture, and  I  think  he  has  no  love  for  me.  Besides,  be- 
tween ourselves,  I  fancy  that  my  time  is  nearly  up. 
Leblun  is  in  this  country  even  now,  and  I  think  he  means 
to  know  the  truth." 

Marcel's  thin  lips  parted,  showing  his  white  teeth.  It 
was  a  snarl  of  fear,  of  angry  fear.  "Leblun  here!"  he 
muttered.  "If  so,  he  came  after  me." 

"In  any  case,"  the  marquis  continued,  "I  do  not  see 
why  I  should  beggar  myself  for  nothing.  I  have  had  some 
years  of  life,  life  that  has  been  worth  living.  I  think  that 
I  may  as  well  make  my  bow  to  fate  as  gracefully  as  pos- 
sible." 

"You  talk  like  a  fool,"  Marcel  declared.  "You  are  in 
no  real  danger  at  all.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  remain  unsuspected  all  your  days.  The  hunchback 
amounts  to  nothing.  He  is  half  mad,  drunk  most  of  the 
time.  He  counts  for  nothing.  The  girl  will  not  betray 
you.  There  is  no  one  else.  Let  me  tell  you,  life  in  prison 
is  a  horrible  thing.  The  cells,  oh,  my  God !  There  are 
no  words  to  describe  them.  It  is  a  life  for  vermin,  not 
for  men." 

"I  have  not  the  slightest  intention,"  the  marquis  said, 
"of  experiencing  it.  There  are  other  ways." 

Marcel  shrugged  his  shoulders.     "Death!"    he  said. 


PASSERS-BY  263 

"One  speaks  of  it  easily  enough,  but,  after  all,  it  is  the 
end.  I  have  held  a  revolver  against  my  own  temple,  but 
the  thought  of  the  black  gulf  will  make  one's  hand  tremble 
a  little,  my  friend.  One  sees  so  quickly,  one  sees  so  much," 
he  added,  leaning  a  little  forward.  "All  the  past  horrors 
seem  to  loom  up.  All  the  dead  men  one  has  ever  caught 
a  glimpse  of  seem  to  lie,  cold  and  ugly,  before  one's  vision. 
No  more  the  wine,  the  kisses,  and  the  sunshine,  the  flow 
of  life  in  one's  veins.  Death !  Extinction !  Ah ! " 

His  face  was  gray  with  fear.  His  companion  looked  at 
him  curiously. 

"Prison  life,"  he  said  calmly,  "has  shaken  your  nerve, 
my  dear  Marcel." 

"We  talk  like  children,"  Marcel  declared  suddenly. 
"I  am  not  here  to  play  with  words.  Will  you  give  me 
money,  or  will  you  not?" 

"I  will  not,"  the  marquis  answered.  "If  I  gave  you 
any  sum  that  I  could  afford,  you  would  be  back  for  more 
the  moment  it  was  spent.  If  I  treat  with  you  at  all  I 
hang  a  millstone  around  my  own  neck.  I  have  burned 
my  bridges.  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  past.  I  do 
not  remember  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire,  and  you,  you 
are  a  stranger.  Tell  your  story  to  whom  you  please. 
My  mind  is  made  up." 

"You  are  not  serious?"  Marcel  whispered  hoarsely. 

"I  am  entirely  serious,"  Lord  Ellingham  answered.    "I 


264  PASSERS-BY 

owe  you  nothing.  There  was  never  any  comradeship 
between  us.  You  were  a  bad  lot  from  first  to  last.  You 
ruined  the  life  of  the  poor  woman  I  was  beguiled  into 
marrying.  I  had  courage,  which  you  had  not,  but  it  was 
you  who  were  responsible  for  all  the  wickedness,  the  real 
treacherous  wickedness,  which  went  on  in  that  cursed 
house.  I  hated  you  then.  I  despise  you  now.  Go  to 
the  first  policeman  you  find.  Tell  him  all  you  know.  I 
am  ready  to  meet  whatever  Fate  may  have  in  store  for 
me,  at  any  time.  Permit  me,"  he  added,  letting  down 
the  window.  "I  am  going  to  tell  the  cabman  to 
stop." 

Marcel  sprang  at  him,  but  Lord  Ellingham  easily  threw 
him  away.  Then,  of  its  own  accord,  the  cab  stopped.  The 
door  was  thrown  open.  Marcel  glared  wildly  out 

"Where  are  we?"  he  exclaimed. 

Lord  Ellingham  stepped  from  the  cab  and  looked  around 
him.  Five  or  six  policemen  were  close  at  hand.  Two 
inspectors  were  on  either  side  of  the  vehicle.  They  were 
drawn  up  before  a  gray  stone  building. 

"Why,  I  believe,"  Lord  Ellingham  remarked,  looking 
around  him,  "that  this  is  Scotland  Yard." 

Marcel  was  speechless  for  a  moment.  He  allowed  him- 
self to  be  led  from  the  cab.  Before  he  realized  what  had 
happened  handcuffs  were  upon  his  wrists,  he  was  being 
led  into  the  building.  Suddenly  he  stopped. 


PASSERS-BY  265 

"This  is  your  doing,"  he  shrieked,  turning  to  Lord 
Ellingham.  "This  is  a  trap." 

Lord  Ellingham  shook  his  head.  "I  can  assure  you," 
he  remarked  pleasantly,  "that  I  had  not  the  faintest  idea 
where  we  were." 

"I  am  arrested,  am  I?"  Marcel  cried  out.  "Then 
arrest  him  too,"  he  added,  pointing  to  where  Lord  Elling- 
ham stood,  calm  and  unruffled.  "He  may  call  himself 
what  he  chooses  now,  but  five  years  ago  he  was  a  very 
different  person.  He  is  the  man  who  escaped  from  the 
Place  Noire  with  the  hunchback  and  the  girl.  He  was 
one  of  us,  the  boldest  of  us  all.  If  I  am  to  be  taken  back 
again  he  shall  come  too." 

They  tried  to  drag  him  away,  but  he  protested,  shrieking, 
and  trying  to  throw  himself  at  Lord  Ellingham. 

"Don't  you  hear  me?"  he  cried.  "This  is  the  truth  I 
am  telling  you.  The  truth,  I  swear  it !  Don't  let  him  go." 

The  marquis  turned  to  the  chief  inspector,  who  at  once 
raised  his  hat.  "I  presume,  Inspector,"  he  said,  "that 
my  being  found  in  company  with  this  person  does  not 
render  me  liable  to  arrest?  I  certainly  did  know  him  in 
Paris  years  ago.  He  is  the  Vicomte  de  Neuilly,  and  in 
those  days  he  was  a  person  whom  every  one  knew.  He 
came  to  me  to-day  with  a  pitiable  story,  and  I  was  induced 
to  listen  to  him.  If  I  am  required  for  any  purpose  you 
will  know  where  to  find  me." 


260  PASSERS-BY 

"Certainly,  my  lord,"  the  man  answered.  "Will  you 
allow  one  of  my  men  to  fetch  you  a  hansom  ?  He  is  a  bad 
lot,  I  am  afraid,"  he  added,  motioning  with  his  head  to 
where  at  last  Marcel  was  being  dragged  away.  "I  did 
hear,  though,  that  he  had  been  a  gentleman  once." 

A  hansom  drove  up,  and  Lord  Ellingham  stepped  in. 
"The  House  of  Lords,"  he  directed.  "I  am  a  little  late. 
Please  hurry." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  marchioness,  who  was  spending  a  dull  even- 
ing at  a  very  large  reception,  welcomed  her  hus- 
band with  a  brilliant  smile.  "  Positively,  my  dear  Francis," 
she  declared,  abruptly  dismissing  the  little  man  who  had 
been  her  escort,  "you  are  the  only  reasonable  person  I 
have  seen  for  hours.  I  never  have  been  so  bored.  Why 
you  have  come,  I  cannot  imagine,  but  since  you  are  here, 
please  take  me  away." 

"Exactly  what  I  came  to  do,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"It  was  nice  of  you,"  she  murmured.  "There  are  two 
more  places  I  ought  to  look  in  at  before  I  go  home,  but  I 
don't  feel  in  the  least  sociable.  It  is  shockingly  early, 
though,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  scarcely  past  eleven  o'clock,"  the  marquis  an- 
swered. 

"We  must  do  something,"  she  declared.  "It  is  too 
absurd  to  go  home." 

He  handed  her  down  the  broad  steps,  and  a  footman 
called  their  carriage. 

"I  have  an  idea,"  he  said.  "Let  us  go  to  one  of  the 
large  supper  restaurants." 


268  PASSERS-BY 

"  Delightful ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  have  been  wanting 
to  go  to  the  Altona  for  supper.  I  nearly  went  with  Lord 
Hardington  the  other  night.  It  will  be  far  more  piquant, 
dear,  to  go  with  you." 

They  carried  out  their  program  faithfully.  It  was  not 
until  they  were  seated  at  a  small  round  table  in  a  com- 
fortable corner  of  the  great  restaurant  and  were  watching, 
the  marchioness  with  some  amazement,  the  throngs  of 
people  who  streamed  in  that  she  noticed  anything  unusual 
in  his  manner. 

"Why,  my  dear  Francis,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  well 
to-night.  Your  face  looks  drawn,  and  your  eyes  are  fever- 
ish. Did  things  go  wrong  in  the  House?" 

"Things  went  well  enough,"  he  answered.  "I  am  a 
little  bothered,  but  it  is  a  matter  which  has  nothing  to  do 
with  politics." 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  answered.  "Can  you  tell  me  about 
it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "It  is  not  worth  while,"  he  said. 
"It  is  one  of  those  little  storms  that  sometimes  blow 
across  one's  life.  They  look  formidable  enough  when  the 
clouds  are  gathering,  but  they  pass  —  oh,  yes,  they  pass." 

She  leaned  across  the  table  and  laid  her  fingers  upon 
his  arm.  "Yet  to-night,"  she  said,  "I  do  not  seem  to 
understand  you.  I  seem  to  feel  a  long  way  off." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "it  is  because  I,  too,  have  been  in  a 


PASSERS-BY  269 

distant  country.  One's  thoughts  play  the  truant  in  a 
strange  manner  sometimes.  To-night,  when  I  was  sitting 
in  my  place,  waiting  to  speak,  instead  of  collecting  my 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  Morocco,  I  found  myself  thinking 
of  the  days  when  you  and  I  were  boy  and  girl  together." 

"It  is  a  long  time  ago,"  she  murmured. 

"It  is  not  so  very  long,"  he  answered;  "not  so  long, 
indeed,  but  that  sometimes  the  very  days  themselves  seem 
to  stand  out,  easily  recognizable,  even  through  the  tangle 
of  years.  I  remember  the  day  when  your  father  told  me 
that  the  fourth  son  of  an  impecunious  peer,  penniless, 
and  with  none  too  good  a  reputation,  was  no  match  for 
his  daughter.  I  remember  our  last  walk  together  across 
the  park  and  up  the  Beacon;  a  clear  October  evening  it 
was,  with  a  snap  in  the  air  and  a  sky  like  crystal,  a  sky 
full  of  strange  lights.  We  walked  down  the  broad  green 
path  hand  in  hand,  and  the  lights  began  to  break  out  like 
little  points  of  twinkling  stars  in  the  valley  below.  Your 
house,  too,  was  all  ablaze.  Do  you  remember?  It  was 
the  night  they  were  expecting  the  man  to  whom  you  were 
to  be  married." 

"I  remember,"  she  answered,  a  little  sadly. 

"I  remember  the  day  I  left  England,"  he  went  on.  "I 
was  a  little  desperate  just  then,  Margaret.  I  could  not  see 
into  the  future.  I  did  not  know  that  if  I  had  only  been 
content  to  wait  my  time  would  come." 


270  PASSERS-BY 

She  touched  his  hand  for  a  moment.  "It  has  come," 
she  murmured. 

"Yes,  it  has  come,"  he  answered,  but  without  a  smile, 
without  any  change  in  the  settled  gravity  of  his  features. 
"It  has  come,  but  a  little  late,  Margaret.  I  did  not  know 
then,  or  I  should  have  left  England  in  a  different  spirit. 
I  should  have  left  undone,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
bitter  note  in  his  low  tones,  "I  should  have  left  undone 
many  things.  I  lived  a  bad  life,  Margaret,  in  those  days." 

"Don't!"  she  begged.  "I  do  not  want  to  hear  about 
them.  You  were  badly  treated.  You  were  disappointed. 
I  think  you  were  a  little  in  love  with  me.  What  you  did  is 
wiped  out.  Think  of  it  no  more,  please." 

"There  are  stains,"  he  answered,  "which  nothing  can 
wipe  out.  No,"  he  added  hastily,  "don't  think  that  I  am 
suffering  from  the  pangs  of  a  troublesome  conscience.  It 
is  not  that.  But  sometimes,  Margaret,  even  the  events 
themselves  rise  up  and  stretch  out  their  hands  toward  my 
throat" 

She  set  down  her  glass  and  looked  at  him  fixedly. 
"Something  has  happened,"  she  whispered. 

"Dear  Margaret,"  he  answered,  "something  may 
happen." 

Neither  of  them  spoke  for  several  moments.  People 
were  passing  their  table.  An  officious  maUre  d' hotel  was 
at  his  elbow  with  suggestions.  They  were  both  people 


PASSERS-BY  271 

with  all  the  self-control  of  their  order,  a  self-control  which 
had  become  a  habit  of  their  lives.  She  looked  around  and 
criticized,  kindly  but  humorously,  some  of  their  neighbors. 
She  spoke  of  the  music,  the  decorations,  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers.  They  were  to  all  appearances  a  couple  like 
all  those  others,  well-bred,  appreciative,  interested,  and 
yet  a  trifle  bored.  When  they  were  alone,  however,  she 
leaned  a  little  forward. 

"What  is  it,  Francis?"  she  asked. 

"In  Paris,"  he  answered  slowly,  "I  had  friends  who 
were  criminals.  I  was  a  criminal  myself." 

She  laughed.  "We  all  are,"  she  answered.  "There  is 
not  a  day  that  every  one  of  us,  in  our  thoughts,  if  not  in 
our  actions,  does  not  offend  against  that  marvelous  code 
of  laws  by  which  we  are  surrounded." 

He  nodded.  "Some  of  us,"  he  said,  "escape.  I  have 
escaped  until  now.  I  want  to  prepare  you  just  a  little, 
Margaret.  There  is  a  chance  that  one  of  those  ugly 
chapters  may  be  reopened.  There  is  a  man  in  this  country 
who  is  determined  to  bring  home  to  me  a  deed,  or  a  series 
of  deeds,  rather,  for  which  I  was  certainly  jointly  re- 
sponsible with  others,  and  which  were  certainly  offenses 
against  the  laws." 

"You  are  sure,"  she  asked,  "that  it  is  not  some  one  who 
is  trying  to  blackmail  you?" 

"I  am  sure,"  he  answered.    "The  man  is  above  that 


272  PASSERS-BY 

He  is  not  to  be  bought.  They  say  he  is  the  cleverest  de- 
tective in  France.  If  so,  he  can  scarcely  fail  to  find  me 
out" 

She  was  not  in  the  least  daunted.  She  raised  her  glass 
and  drank  to  him  with  a  little  nod.  "My  dear  Francis," 
she  said,  "there  are  hundreds  of  people  who  go  through 
life  with  some  such  shadow  dogging  their  footsteps.  It 
always  seems  worse  than  it  really  is.  Take  my  advice. 
Refuse  to  believe  in  it,  refuse  to  believe  that  fate  could  be 
so  cruel.  At  any  rate,  there  is  no  need  to  poison  the  days 
or  the  hours  that  lie  between.  Forget  it  for  a  little  while, 
at  least.  If  it  comes  —  well,  we  will  meet  it  hand  in  hand. 
Our  life  is  sometimes  almost  too  absorbing.  Let  us  try 
to  forget  that  you  are  a  great  politician,  a  peer  of  Eng- 
land, and  that  I  am  your  wife  and  a  person  of  consequence 
in  society.  Then  if  it  comes  we  can  be  primitive.  We  are 
man  and  woman  together.  We  can  at  least  be  as  brave 
as  those  others  underneath." 

He  looked 'at  her  for  several  moments,  and  there  was 
something  in  his  eyes  which  brought  the  color  to  her 
cheeks,  something  which  he  never  attempted  to  translate 
into  words.  He  felt  his  heart  beating  with  a  new  vigor. 
The  shadows  which  had  been  leaning  over  him  suddenly 
melted  away.  The  courage  of  his  race  —  he  had  always 
had  more  than  his  share  —  reasserted  itself.  They  talked 
for  half  an  hour  or  more,  but  gaily,  and  as  two  people  to 


PASSERS-BY  273 

whom  the  world  is  still  an  enchanted  garden.  And  when 
they  sat  in  their  carriage,  on  their  way  back  to  Cavendish 
Square,  his  arm  went  around  her  waist  and  her  lips  sought 
his. 

"I  wonder,"  she  whispered,  "why  you  did  not  take  me 
straight  home  to-night?  We  could  have  talked  there." 

He  smiled  at  the  recollection.  "My  dear  Margaret," 
he  said,  "I  was  a  slave  to  my  fears.  I  was  afraid  of  finding 
some  one  waiting  there  for  me." 

"  Foolish ! "  she  murmured. 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  house  in  Cavendish  Square 
with  his  own  latch-key.  The  lights  were  burning  dimly 
in  the  hall,  for  it  was  almost  one  o'clock,  but  the  hall- 
porter,  who  was  still  up,  came  hurrying  to  meet  them. 

"Any  letters  or  telegrams,  Jameson?"  the  marquis 
asked,  as  he  suffered  himself  to  be  divested  of  his  over- 
coat. 

"There  are  none  which  Mr.  Penton  has  not  attended 
to,  my  lord,"  was  the  respectful  answer.  "Only,  about 
two  hours  ago,  a  gentleman  called  to  see  you.  He  said 
that  his  business  was  very  important,  and  he  has  been 
allowed  to  wait  for  your  coming." 

The  marquis  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  He  was 
straightening  his  tie,  which  had  been  momentarily  dis- 
arranged, and  he  turned  away  from  the  mirror  with  a 

smile.     "Well,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  know  who  my  late 

18 


274  PASSERS-BY 

visitor  may  be,  but  I  shall  have  an  excuse  for  a  cigarette. 
Our  little  supper  was  so  delightful,"  he  added,  "that  I 
forgot  even  to  smoke.  Where  is  this  person,  Jameson?" 
he  asked,  turning  to  the  man. 

"I  showed  him  into  the  library,  sir,"  the  man  answered. 

The  marquis  turned  to  escort  his  wife  to  the  foot  of  the 
stairs.  She  shook  her  head. 

"Why,  no,"  she  said.  " I  am  not  in  the  least  sleepy.  If 
you  do  not  mind  I  will  come  and  help  you  interview  your 
late  caller.  I  don't  suppose  his  business  is  particularly 
private." 

The  marquis  stood  still  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  a 
little  acquiescent  bow,  he  motioned  for  her  to  precede  him 
toward  the  door  which  the  man  was  already  opening. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE  man  who  had  been  waiting  rose  with  a  little 
gesture  of  relief  as  the  door  was  thrown  open.  He 
looked  with  some  surprise  toward  the  marchioness.  The 
marquis  was  silent  for  a  moment.  This  was  not  the  man 
he  had  expected  to  see.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  rear- 
range his  ideas. 

Gilbert  Hannaway  bowed,  and  turned  toward  him. 
"I  hope  you  will  pardon  the  liberty  I  have  taken,  Lord 
Ellingham,"  he  said,  "  in  awaiting  your  return.  I  wished 
to  see  you  upon  a  matter  which  is  of  great  importance  to 
me,  and  I  ventured  to  hope  that  you  would  give  me  a  few 
minutes  of  your  time  at  once,  if  possible." 

Lord  Ellingham  was  acquiescent,  almost  urbane.  "I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say,  Mr. 
Hannaway,"  he  said.  "Permit  me,"  he  added,  turning 
toward  his  wife,  "to  present  to  you  this  gentleman. 
It  is  Mr.  Gilbert  Hannaway  —  the  Marchioness  of 
Ellingham." 

Hannaway  bowed  low.  "I  must  apologize  again,  Lady 
Ellingham,"  he  said,  "for  disturbing  your  husband  so 
late.  If  you  can  spare  him  to  me  for  a  few  minutes,  though, 


276  PASSERS-BY 

I  shall  be  very  glad.     I  wish  to  consult  him  about  a  some- 
what important  matter." 

The  marchioness  smiled  pleasantly.  "Please  don't 
mind  me  a  bit,"  she  said.  "  I  am  going  to  sit  over  there 
in  the  easy- chair  and  —  I  hope  you  won' t  mind  —  smoke  a 
cigarette." 

Gilbert  Hannaway  looked  from  the  marquis  to  his  wife 
in  some  embarrassment.  "If  I  may  say  so,"  he  began, 
"the  business  which  I  have  with  you,  Lord  Ellingham,  is 
of  a  private  nature." 

"  Mr.  Hannaway, ' '  the  marquis  said,  ' '  I  have  no  secrets 
from  my  wife.  Every  word  which  you  could  possibly  say 
to  me,  connected  with  any  subject  whatever,  I  should  even 
prefer  you  to  say  before  her.  I  have  great  confidence  in 
my  wife' s  j  udgment. ' ' 

The  marchioness  smiled.  "My  husband,"  she  said, 
"  has  been  indulging  in  a  little  retrospection  this  evening. 
I  am  quite  sure  that  he  would  like  me  to  hear  anything 
that  you  may  have  to  say.  And  so  far  as  you  are  concerned, 
I  can  assure  you  that  I  am  a  most  discreet  person." 

Hannaway  bowed.  "  If  it  is  your  wish,  Lord  Ellingham, ' ' 
he  said  gravely,  "there  is  no  reason  why  I  should  not  say 
what  is  in  my  mind  before  your  wife.  I  have  come  to 
make  something  which  to  you  may  sound  like  an  appeal. 
I  have  come  at  this  hour  of  the  night  because  there  is 
very  little  time  to  spare." 


PASSERS-BY  277 

The  marquis  seated  himself  in  an  easy  chair,  opposite 
to  his  wife,  and  placed  one  for  Hannaway  between  the 
two.  "Go  on,"  he  said.  "You  are  sure  that  you  will 
not  smoke?" 

Hannaway  shook  his  head.  "Not  at  present,  thank 
you,"  he  answered.  "I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Lord  Elling- 
ham,  about  something  which  happened  in  Paris  nearly 
five  years  ago." 

"I  imagined  so,"  the  marquis  murmured. 

"It  is  very  largely  a  personal  matter,  after  all,"  Hanna- 
way continued,  "which  has  brought  me  here.  In  those 
days  I  was  a  young  man,  with  a  love  of  adventure  which 
led  me  into  strange  places  more  than  once.  It  was  this 
love  of  adventure  which  made  me  an  habitue*  of  the  night 
cafe's  in  Paris,  and  a  visitor  at  a  certain  house  in  the  Place 
Noire,  where  I  met  you,  Lord  Ellingham,  more  than 
once." 

Lord  Ellingham  nodded.    "  Go  on,"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  here,"  Hannaway  continued  earnestly,  "to 
speak  of  the  things  which  went  on  in  that  house.  They 
do  not  concern  my  present  mission  at  all.  It  used  to 
amuse  me  to  imagine  myself  an  inspired  solver  of  mys- 
teries. I  used  to  like  to  set  myself  imaginary  tasks,  to 
trace  down  imaginary  criminals.  It  was  only  the  outcome 
of  my  natural  love  of  adventure;  the  fancy  or  hobby,  or 
whatever  you  like  to  call  it,  passed  away.  I  am  not  here 


278  PASSERS-BY 

to-night  to  pose  as  a  person  who  by  chance  has  stumbled 

across  a  secret." 

The  marquis  raised  his  eyebrows.  "No?"  he  asked 
politely.  "You  are  aware,  of  course,  that  there  is  one 
close  at  hand?" 

"I  am  aware  of  it,  Lord  Ellingham,"  Hannaway 
answered.  "It  is  not  my  business.  I  am  here  neither  to 
warn  nor  to  intimidate  you.  I  am  here  to  crave  a  favor." 

The  marchioness  leaned  a  little  forward  in  her  chair. 

"A  favor?"  her  hustand  repeated,  with  knitted  eye- 
brows. "I  do  not  quite  understand." 

"I  was  young  in  those  days,  and  I  think  I  have  told  you 
that  I  had  romantic  impulses,"  Hannaway  continued. 
"There  was  a  girl  —  she  was  little  more  than  a  child  — 
who  when  I  first  knew  it  was  an  inmate  of  the  house  in 
the  Place  Noire.  For  some  reason,  I  am  not  sure  why, 
but  I  think  I  can  guess,  she  left  it.  She  left  it,  penniless, 
except  for  a  generous  gift  from  you.  She  left  it,  I  know, 
against  your  will,  but  feeling  that  from  you,  at  any  rate, 
she  had  never  met  with  anything  but  kindness.  I  used  to 
watch  her.  I  used  to  wonder  what  attraction  there  was 
in  her  somber  dark  eyes  and  her  somewhat  sullen  bearing. 
But  there  was  an  attraction.  Other  people,  as  you  know, 
felt  it.  She  left  that  house  —  it  was  as  well  for  her  that 
she  did  —  and  she  sang  in  the  streets  with  a  hunchback 
who  came  from  the  village  where  she  was  born,  who  had 


"  I  am  not  here  to-night  to  pose  as  a  person  who  by  chance 

has  stumbled  across  a  secret."  [Page  278 


PASSERS-BY  279 

followed  her  to  Paris,  and  who  seems  all  his  life  to  have 
borne  for  her  a  wonderful  affection.  I  saw  them  occa- 
sionally in  Paris.  I  often  tried  to  renew  my  acquaintance 
with  the  girl.  Always  she  was  cold  and  distant.  She 
seemed  to  have  become  imbibed  with  a  great  and  ever- 
present  distrust  of  my  sex.  Then  came  that  fatal  night 
when  the  police  made  their  raid  upon  the  house  in  the 
Place  Noire.  She  and  the  hunchback  were  there,  outside. 
He  had  many  strange  friends,  and  he  had  heard  of  what 
was  coming.  They  had  hastened  up  at  the  bidding  of 
the  Vicomte  de  Neuilly  —  the  man  Marcel,  as  he  is  now 
called  —  the  girl's  uncle.  There  was  some  scheme  by 
means  of  which  he  was  to  escape  with  them.  You  man- 
aged somehow  to  take  his  place.  Sheltered  by  their  pres- 
ence, wheeling,  in  fact,  their  piano,  you  escaped.  You 
passed  down  the  little  cobbled  hill  which  led  from  the 
Place  Noire,  and  you  passed  also  out  of  that  life.  No  one 
can  be  more  sorry  than  I,  Lord  Ellingham,  that  you  did 
not  pass  out  of  it  forever." 

"I  am  very  much  interested,"  Lord  Ellingham  mur- 
mured. "Please  continue.  If  you  had  told  me  that  you 
had  come  once  more  to  warn  me  I  could  have  understood 
your  presence.  But  a  favor?" 

"I  am  coming  to  that,"  Gilbert  Hannaway  continued. 
"I  was  wounded  that  night,  as  perhaps  you  know,  and  it 
was  some  months  before  I  was  able  to  get  about  again. 


280  PASSERS-BY 

All  the  time  I  found  myself  thinking  of  that  girl  with  the 
dark  eyes  and  the  strange,  sad  little  face.  When  I  was 
well  I  set  myself  to  find  them,  and  I  failed.  They  were 
not  in  Paris;  they  were  not  in  any  of  the  cities  where  I 
sought  for  them.  In  whatever  city  I  chanced  to  be  I 
looked  for  them.  At  night  in  my  rooms,  if  I  heard  a 
piano  in  the  streets,  I  hurried  to  the  window.  It  was 
always  the  same  —  failure.  I  did  not  see  the  girl  again 
until  a  few  months  ago." 

"In  London?"   the  marquis  asked. 

"In  London,"  Hannaway  assented.  "I  looked  down 
from  my  rooms  in  the  Altona  Hotel,  and  I  saw  a  melan- 
choly trio  in  the  passage  below.  I  saw  a  hunchback 
thumping  out  miserable  music,  and  I  saw  a  girl  standing 
with  her  hands  behind  her  back,  singing  with  lifeless  de- 
spair. I  was  out  there  in  a  moment.  It  was  they.  The 
girl  at  first  did  not  recognize  me.  She  was  still  the  same, 
inaccessible,  only  to  me  far  more  fascinating.  I  felt  my 
heart  beat  with  a  return  of  all  the  emotion  which  I  had 
felt  years  before.  I  knew  that  I  had  never  forgotten 
her;  she  seemed  somehow  to  have  become  a  part  of  my 
life.  As  I  talked  to  her  I  felt  years  younger;  I  felt  again 
that  the  world  of  romance  was  a  real  pulsating  thing.  I 
made  myself  known,  and  for  some  reason  or  other  she 
was  alarmed.  They  tried  to  escape;  I  persisted,  the 
hunchback  stole  round  behind  and  struck  me  on  the 


PASSERS-BY  281 

head.  I  was  giddy  for  a  few  moments,  and  when  1  came 
to  they  had  disappeared." 

"Since  then,"  the  marquis  remarked,  "I  suppose  you 
have  met  the  young  lady  more  frequently?" 

"I  saw  her  twice  again,"  Hannaway  answered,  "and 
then  she  disappeared  with  you  in  a  carriage  at  Victoria 
Station.  A  few  days  later  we  came  back  from  Paris  on 
the  same  steamer.  She  was  no  longer  a  street  singer. 
She  was  a  creature  of  another  world,  the  world  to  which 
I  had  felt  all  the  time  that  she  belonged.  I  made  her  ac- 
quaintance by  chance.  Since  then  there  is  a  considerable 
interval  which  I  need  not  enlarge  upon,  because  the  facts 
are  known,  Lord  Ellingham,  to  both  of  us.  I  discovered 
that  the  girl  was  your  stepdaughter ;  that  you  had  married 
her  mother,  Madame  de  Lanson,  in  Paris;  that  she  was, 
indeed,  the  daughter  of  the  woman  who  died  in  the  house 
at  the  Place  Noire  a  few  weeks  before  the  raid." 

The  marchioness  shivered  a  little,  but  she  did  not  speak. 
The  marquis  turned  his  head  and  looked  toward  her. 
She  smiled,  and  nodded  back  at  him. 

"The  girl  is  your  stepdaughter,"  Hannaway  continued, 
"and  directly  you  found  her  out,  or  rather  she  found  you 
out,  you  of  course  provided  for  her.  I  had  hoped  that 
before  now  she  would  have  become  my  wife." 

The  marquis  raised  his  eyebrows.  The  corners  of  his 
mouth  twitched  with  a  faint  smile.  "  My  dear  Mr.  Hanna- 


282  PASSERS-BY 

way,"  he  said,  "if  the  favor  which  you  are  going  to  ask 
of  me,  is  my  permission  to  pay  your  addresses  to  my 
stepdaughter,  I  can  assure  you  that  in  all  such  matters 
her  wishes  are  entirely  mine." 

Hannaway  held  out  his  hand.  "Lord  Ellingham,"  he 
said,  "it  is  not  so  simple  a  matter.  You  remember  the 
hunchback  of  whom  we  have  spoken?" 

"Quite  well,"  Lord  Ellingham  answered. 

"His  devotion  to  Christine,"  Hannaway  said,  "seems 
to  be  one  of  those  strange  and  unaccountable  passions 
which  people  who  are  in  any  way  unusual,  mentally  or 
physically,  seem  to  be  most  capable  of.  Practically  since 
his  boyhood  he  has  given  his  life  for  her.  He  has  kept 
her  from  want  when  he  himself  has  been  near  starvation." 

"I  appreciate  all  that,"  the  marquis  said,  interrupting. 
"I  will  tell  you  something.  So  fearful  was  he  lest  they 
should  be  separated  that  he  came  to  warn  me  that  she 
was  in  England  searching  for  me.  I  was,  in  fact,  on  the 
point  of  leaving  England,  when  some  other  person  brought 
us  together." 

"It  was  I,"  Hannaway  admitted.  "I  knew  for  whom 
she  was  searching,  and  I  told  her.  You  will  not  blame  me 
for  that?  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not  Your 
secret  I  was  guarding,  although  there  was  no  reason  what- 
ever why  I  should  not  have  cried  out  to  the  world  that 
the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  had  once  been  an  habitue"  of  a 


PASSERS-BY  283 

house  of  very  evil  repute,  in  a  low  quarter  of  Paris.  I  did 
not  do  that.  I  had  no  thought  of  doing  it.  I  was  even 
glad  that  you  had  been  able  to  reestablish  yourself  in  the 
world.  Never  a  whisper  passed  my  lips  of  the  things  I 
knew,  nor  did  I  in  any  way  bring  myself  to  your  notice." 

"It  is  quite  true,"  the  marquis  admitted. 

"But  with  the  girl  it  was  different,"  Hannaway  con- 
tinued. "  I  saw  her  in  want.  I  knew  that  she  would  never 
take  anything  from  me.  Naturally,  having  it  in  my  power, 
I  showed  her  how  to  find  you." 

"I  have  no  word  of  complaint  against  your  behavior, 
Mr.  Hannaway,"  the  marquis  said.  "In  fact,  you  have 
shown  a  considerable  amount  of  forbearance." 

"I  want  to  return  to  the  subject  of  the  hunchback  and 
his  devotion,"  Hannaway  continued.  "What  he  suffered 
after  their  separation  I  can  only  imagine.  Christine  her- 
self was  a  little  cruel,  but  even  when  she  did  offer  him  the 
means  to  leave  his  miserable  life  he  refused  almost  fiercely. 
Still  he  played  his  piano  and  dragged  himself  aboutLondon, 
living  God  knows  how.  All  the  time  he  was  watching  her. 
All  the  time,  I  fancy,  things  were  smoldering  in  his  mind. 
One  knows  nothing.  One  cannot  even  guess  what  such 
things  may  mean,"  he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  a 
little,  "but  Anatoile,  the  Frenchman,  who  came  over 
most  surely  to  rob  her,  was  found  dead  in  her  rooms,  and 
I  alone  know  —  a  knowledge  I  have  never  shared  with  a 


284  PASSERS-BY 

single  person  —  that  that  night  Ambrose  played  his  piano 
outside.  I  am  very  sure  that  he  has  been  in  communica- 
tion with  the  other  Frenchmen,  Marcel  and  Pierre.  All 
the  time  there  has  been  something  in  his  mind.  He  had 
given  his  life  for  Christine.  In  a  way  it  was  an  epic.  He 
had  asked  for  nothing  from  her  save  her  presence.  She 
was  not  even  kind  to  him.  His  life  was  one  unending 
sacrifice  for  her.  When  she  left  him,  do  you  think  that  a 
creature  like  that  would  accept  his  fate?" 

Hannaway  paused.  His  listeners  leaned  a  little  for- 
ward. Both  seemed  deeply  interested. 

"What  can  he  do?"  the  marquis  asked.  "If  he  re- 
fuses money  from  Christine,  and  she  has  money  to  give 
him  if  he  will  accept  it,  what  else  can  he  ask?" 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  what  he  does  ask,"  Hannaway. 
said.  "Only  yesterday  he  came  to  Christine.  He  was 
dressed  in  new  clothes.  His  piano  he  declared  was  smashed. 
He  had  been  left  a  great  sum  of  money.  He  announced 
himself  a  rich  man.  Then  the  things  which  had  been 
smoldering  in  his  mind  broke  forth.  He  told  her  that 
there  was  no  life  for  him  in  which  she  did  not  share.  He 
told  her  that  he  had  solved  the  mystery  of  the  man  who 
escaped  from  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire.  He  told  her 
that  it  was  you  —  you,  for  whom  Christine  has  a  deep 
and  constant  affection  at  which  I  never  guessed.  He  told 
her  that  unless  she  would  consent  to  come  back  to  him 


PASSERS-BY  285 

on  any  terms  —  to  treat  him  like  a  dog  if  she  wished,  but 
to  let  him  see  her  day  by  day  —  he  would  go  to-morrow 
to  Jacques  Leblun,  who  is  here  in  London,  and  tell  him 
the  truth." 

There  was  silence  for  several  moments.  The  marquis 
seemed  wrapped  in  thought.  His  wife  was  watching  him 
earnestly. 

"This  money,"  Lord  Ellingham  said,  "where  did  it 
come  from?" 

Hannaway  shook  his  head.    "I  have  no  idea,"  he  said. 

"I  think,"  the  marquis  said,  "that  I  can  tell  you.  I 
think  that  it  represents  a  sum  of  four  million  francs,  which 
Marcel  believed  that  I  had." 

"Four  million  francs?"   Hannaway  repeated. 

The  marquis  nodded.  "  It  was  hidden  in  the  piano  that 
night,"  he  said.  "Marcel  hid  it  there  when  he  planned 
to  escape." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

"  iy  yCARCEL,"  the  marquis  said  thoughtfully,  "was 
1.  T  X  arrested  to-night.  Pierre  and  Anatoile  are  dead. 
There  is  no  one  else  left.  Now,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he 
added  in  an  altered  tone,  "we  come  to  the  favor  which  you 
crave  from  me.  Continue,  if  you  please." 

"Christine,"  Hannaway  said,  "is  leaving  on  the  nine 
o'clock  train  to-morrow.  She  is  going  away  with  Ambrose, 
thinking  that  by  doing  so  she  will  save  you.  I  am  very 
sorry,  Lord  Ellingham,  but  in  that  she  is  mistaken.  Noth- 
ing that  Ambrose  could  say  or  do  would  affect  your  future. 
Leblun  is  here,  and  I  am  confident  that  he  knows." 

For  the  first  time  the  marchioness  allowed  a  little  ex- 
clamation to  break  from  her  lips.     She  recovered  herself 
almost  directly,  and  looked  anxiously  across  at  her  husband. 
"Leblun  knows?"   he  repeated.    "You  are  sure?" 
"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  Hannaway  answered. 
"  I  told  you  this  afternoon  of  the  trap  into  which  I  had 
fallen.     The  very  fact   that  he   mentioned   your   name 
showed  clearly  enough  what  was  in  his  mind.    Lord  Elling- 
ham, your  stepdaughter's  self-sacrifice  would  be  absolutely 
unavailing.    Will  you  not  intervene  and  save  her?" 


PASSERS-BY  287 

The  marquis  glanced  at  the  clock.  Hannaway  shook 
his  head. 

"She  has  left  her  rooms  and  gone  to  a  hotel,  so  as  to 
avoid  me,"  he  said.  "  Her  maid  would  not  tell  me  where, 
but  after  nearly  an  hour's  persuasion  I  got  her  to  tell  me 
that  she  was  to  meet  her  mistress  at  Victoria  for  the  nine 
o'clock  train  to-morrow  morning." 

"I  will  be  there,"  the  marquis  answered. 

"We  will  both  be  there,"  his  wife  echoed. 

Hannaway  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  A  sudden 
wave  of  pity  swept  over  him.  "You  are  very  good,"  he 
said  simply.  "Lord  Ellingham,"  he  added,  rising  to  his 
feet,  "  I  need  not  say  that  if  there  is  a  single  thing  which  I 
can  do  to  help  I  am  entirely  at  your  service.  If  you  would 
like  me  to  go  to  Leblun  —  " 

The  marquis  shook  his  head.  "  I  think,"  he  said,  "  that 
we  had  better  let  events  take  their  course.  I  am,  of 
course,  responsible  for  some  portion  of  the  misdeeds 
that  were  planned  in  that  house,  and  if  justice  demands 
it  I  must  answer  for  them.  Are  you  quite  sure,  Mr. 
Hannaway,  that  you  won't  have  a  cigarette  before  you 
go?" 

Hannaway  accepted  one  simply  because  he  was  reluc- 
tant to  leave. 

"You  will  be  at  the  station  to-morrow  morning?"  the 
marquis  asked. 


288  PASSERS-BY 

"I  shall,"  Hannaway  answered.  "I  was  going  there 
to  do  what  I  could  to  prevent  her  from  going." 

"She  shall  not  go,  I  promise  you  that,"  the  marquis 
said,  smiling.  "A  very  devoted  person,  the  hunchback, 
no  doubt,  but  a  dangerous  creature  to  be  the  owner  of 
four  million  francs.  He  would  lose  his  head  at  once.  What- 
ever happens,  they  must  not  be  allowed  to  leave  London 
together.  Good  night,  Mr.  Hannaway." 

The  marquis  had  touched  the  bell,  and  a  servant  was 
waiting  to  show  his  guest  out.  Hannaway  made  his  adieu 
and  left,  wholly  unable  to  realize  the  success  of  his  mis- 
sion. The  marchioness  had  given  him  her  fingers  and  a 
very  gracious  smile.  Lord  Ellingham  had  bidden  him 
good  night  with  the  utmost  good-will.  There  was  not  a 
sign  of  tragedy  in  either  of  their  faces.  And  less  than  a 
mile  away  Jacques  Leblun  was  already  crouching  for  the 
spring ! 

Christine,  almost  invisible  beneath  a  heavy  black 
traveling-veil,  came  hurriedly  along  the  platform,  followed 
by  her  maid.  In  front  of  the  open  carriage-door  stood 
Ambrose,  moody  and  perturbed;  yet  underneath  his 
darkened  face  some  other  part  of  the  man  seemed  sud- 
denly on  fire.  He  had  lost  that  look  of  tender  humility 
which  had  always  shone  in  his  eyes  as  he  followed  her 
every  movement.  He  had  struck  his  great  blow.  Was  it 


PASSERS-BY  289 

for  this  he  had  been  waiting,  he  wondered,  through  all  the 
years  ?  She  was  coming  back  to  him,  and  yet  in  his  heart 
he  knew  very  well  that  it  was  all  a  mirage,  an  apple  of 
Sodom  to  his  eager  hand.  She  was  coming  because  he  had 
worked  upon  her  fears,  but  she  was  coming  with  a  new 
loathing  in  her  heart  for  him.  He  knew  very  well  that  the 
barriers  over  which  he  had  sometimes  fancied  himself  gaz- 
ing now  reached  to  the  skies. 

He  stepped  forward  to  meet  her,  but  at  that  moment 
Lord  Ellingham,  who  had  just  issued  from  the  booking- 
office,  intervened.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  Christine's 
shoulder. 

"  My  dear  Christine ! "  he  said  reproachfully. 

She  shrank  back,  as  though  terrified  at  his  touch.  Am- 
brose stood  quite  still.  The  lightning  shot  from  his  eyes. 
Lord  Ellingham,  who  had  no  notion  of  making  a  scene, 
glanced  carelessly  around  and  nodded  to  Ambrose. 

"My  dear  Christine,"  be  continued,  "this  little  ex- 
cursion of  yours  cannot  be  allowed  to  take  place.  Mr. 
Drake  will  excuse  me,  I  am  sure,"  he  continued,  turning 
toward  Ambrose,  "if  I  point  out  to  him  its  impossibility." 

She  clutched  at  his  arm.  "You  don't  understand,"  she 
murmured.  "Don't  make  him  angry." 

"Oh,  but  I  understand  very  well,"  Lord  Ellingham  an- 
swered indulgently.  "He  is  going  to  a  little  wizened- 
faced  man  named  Jacques  Leblun,  and  he  is  going  to  tell 

19 


290  PASSERS-BY 

him  all  about  me,  if  you  do  not  go.  That  is  also  foolish.  I 
have  hurried  down  here  —  excuse  my  reminding  you  of  it, 
but  I  hate  to  breakfast  before  ten  o'clock  —  on  purpose 
to  assure  you  that  Mr.  Jacques  Leblun  already  knows 
everything  that  your  friend  could  tell  him." 

"Is  that  true?"  she  whispered. 

"Absolutely,"  Lord  Ellingham  answered.  "Your  friend 
can  carry  out  his  amiable  intentions  without  a  moment's 
delay,  and  he  will  yet  find  himself  too  late.  He  knows 
nothing  about  me  that  is  not  already  known  to  Leblun. 
On  the  other  hand,"  the  marquis  continued,  turning  to 
Ambrose,  "there  is  a  little  matter  of  four  million  francs." 

"Not  mine!"  Ambrose  gasped.  "Not  for  me!  For 
years  I  have  starved  rather  than  touch  one  penny  of  that 
money.  It  is  in  her  name.  I  am  only  her  guardian.  It  is 
there  waiting  for  her." 

"I  do  not  doubt  your  amiable  intentions,"  Lord  Elling- 
ham said  smoothly,  "but  you  must  not  imagine  for  a  mo- 
ment that  I  could  allow  my  stepdaughter  to  profit  by  them. 
I  have  made  many  mistakes  in  trying  to  keep  secret  from 
my  wife,  from  the  world,  from  every  one,  events  of  which 
I  have  every  reason  to  feel  ashamed.  That  is  over.  I  am 
going  to  take  Christine  back  to  my  house,  and  when  you, 
sir,  are  in  a  different  frame  of  mind  I  shall  be  glad  to  see 
and  talk  with  you,  for,  after  all,  Christine  is  very  much  in 
your  debt" 


PASSERS-BY  291 

The  guard  came  hurrying  up.  "  Take  your  seats,  please," 
he  ordered. 

"You,  perhaps,"  Lord  Ellington  continued,  "may  think 
it  worth  while  to  continue  your  journey.  The  carriage  is 
waiting  outside  for  you,  Christine." 

He  turned  away,  with  his  arm  drawn  slightly  through 
Christine's.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  at  all  unusual  in 
the  little  scene.  Even  Ambrose  spoke  no  word  in  protest 

"Take  those  things  out,"  he  ordered  the  porter.  "1 
shall  go  by  the  next  train." 

Christine  and  Lord  Ellingham  passed  out  in  silence  to 
the  carriage  which  was  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn 

HANNAWAY,  later  in  the  day,  came  face  to  face  with 
the  man  who  was  most  in  his  thoughts,  on  the  steps 
of  the  Altona  Hotel.  He  stopped  short 

"Mr.  Leblun !"  he  exclaimed. 

Leblun  greeted  him  courteously.  Hannaway  drew  him 
a  little  to  one  side.  "Could  you  spare  me  five  minutes?" 
he  asked. 

"With  pleasure,"  Leblun  answered.  "Five  hours,  if 
you  wish.  I  am  one  of  the  most  idle  men  breathing." 

They  turned  back  into  the  lounge,  and  Hannaway  led 
the  way  to  two  easy  chairs,  drawn  a  little  apart. 

"Mr.  Leblun,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you,  if  you 
will  allow  me,  concerning  the  matter  which  brought  you 
to  England ;  concerning  the  matter,  in  fact,  which  we  were 
discussing  the  other  night." 

Leblun  slowly  inclined  his  head.  "I  remember  per- 
fectly," he  said. 

"We  need  not  beat  about  the  bush,"  Hannaway  de- 
clared earnestly.  "You  came  to  England  to  discover  the 
identity  of  a  certain  person,  and  I  am  very  sure  that  you 
have  discovered  it" 


PASSERS-BY  293 

Leblun  smiled.  "You  flatter  me,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he 
said.  "Well,  I  will  admit  that  I  do  not  often  start  upon  a 
search  without  bringing  it  to  a  successful  conclusion.  This, 
I  fancy,  will  be  no  exception;  but  there,  one  must  not 
boast." 

"  Mr.  Leblun,"  Hannaway  said,  "  I  know  very  well  that 
as  a  solver  of  mysteries,  a  tracker  down  of  criminals,  you 
have  had  no  equal  in  this  generation.  You  set  yourself  a 
task,  and  you  have  accomplished  it.  Your  hand  is  even 
now  stretched  out  to  strike.  For  one  moment  I  want  to 
ask  you  to  consider.  Look  a  little  beyond  the  immediate 
result  which  you  have  achieved.  Do  you  think  that  your 
success  in  this  instance  is  worth  while?" 

"Worth  while?"  Leblun  repeated  thoughtfully.  "I 
fear  that  you  will  have  to  be  a  little  more  explicit." 

"You  have  it  in  your  power,"  Hannaway  continued, 
"to  create  a  huge  scandal  and  bring  a  lasting  disgrace 
upon  a  man  whose  sins,  after  all,  were  the  sins  of  youth, 
and  who  in  a  different  position  has  lived  a  worthy  life. 
Why  not  pause?  Is  it  worth  while  to  denounce  him? 
What  does  it  mean,  after  all?  He  was  mixed  up  with 
some  daring  robberies,  but  the  part  he  took  in  them  was 
always  the  part  where  the  risk  was  greatest.  He  carried 
his  life  in  his  hands  more  than  once.  I  never  heard  of 
him,  in  those  days  —  and  I  knew  something  of  them  —  I 
never  heard  of  him,  I  say,  robbing  the  poor,  or  cheating, 


294  PASSERS-BY 

or  joining  with  Marcel  in  that  wretched  baccarat.  He  was 
an  adventurer,  but  if  there  can  be  a  proper  spirit  in  which 
one  may  become  a  criminal  he  certainly  had  it.  Since 
those  days  he  has  atoned.  Justice  does  not  demand  his 
punishment.  Why  should  you  ?  You  are  the  only  one  who 
knows,  unless  you  have  already  acquainted  Scotland 
Yard  —  you  and  that  wretch  Marcel,  whose  word  would  go 
for  nothing.  You  have  behind  you  a  great  career.  I  be- 
lieve that  none  of  your  achievements  would  be  more 
splendid,  more  notable  than  the  present  one,  if  —  " 

"If?"  Leblun  asked  softly. 

"If  you  left  for  Paris  by,  say,  the  two-twenty  train  this 
afternoon." 

Leblun's  face  was  immovable.  He  showed  no  signs  of 
approval  or  of  sympathy.  From  his  little  silver  case  he 
drew  a  cigarette  and  puffed  blue  smoke  out  into  the  room. 
"You  are  a  sentimentalist,  Mr.  Hannaway,"  he  said. 

"The  world  which  takes  no  heed  of  sentiment,"  Hanna- 
way answered,  "  is  fast  drifting  onto  the  rocks.  The  man 
who  governs  his  life  with  no  thought  of  sentiment  is  a 
machine,  not  a  human  being.  The  great  rules  of  life  are 
but  a  shining  background  for  brilliant  exceptions.  This 
is  one,  Mr.  Leblun.  Be  merciful.  You  are  great  enough. 
Your  reputation  will  be  undimmed,  even  if  you  have  the 
courage  to  announce  your  present  search  a  failure.  You 
will  never  regret  it" 


PASSERS-BY  295 

Leblun  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette.  "You  are 
even  more  than  a  sentimentalist,  I  see,  my  dear  friend/' 
he  said.  "Frankly,  I  do  not  understand  you.  I  may  be 
a  man,  or  I  may  be  a  machine,  but  what  I  work  for  I  ac- 
complish. If  a  man  has  sinned  against  the  laws  of  society, 
God  or  his  conscience  may  forgive  him,  but  it  is  not  the 
privilege  of  any  part  of  the  human  system  to  ignore  his 
misdoings.  Crime  and  its  punishment  are  as  certain  as 
the  swing  of  the  pendulum.  It  is  not  vanity  alone  which 
inspires  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  would  as  soon  cut  off 
this  right  hand  as  let  the  Marquis  of  Ellingham  remain 
untouched." 

"But  this,"  Hannaway  declared,  "is  not  reasonable." 
Leblun  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "My  dear  friend,"  he 
said,  "it  depends  upon  the  point  of  view.  I  have  called 
you  a  sentimentalist.  More  or  less  you  are  one.  I  myself 
—  look  at  me."  He  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  little 
typical  gesture.  "  I  am  fifty-nine  years  old,  hard,  withered, 
with  scant  power  of  enjoyment  in  any  shape  or  form.  I 
have  no  relatives,  no  wife,  no  child.  The  man  who  passes 
by  in  the  street  is  no  more  to  me  than  the  snail  that  crosses 
my  path.  I  do  not  care  for  him.  He  does  not  care  for  me. 
If  he  were  crushed  under  foot  I  would  turn  my  head  lest  I 
should  look  upon  an  unpleasant  sight.  Apart  from  that  I 
would  not  care.  Thirty-nine  years  I  have  been  a  hunter 
of  men.  Do  you  think  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  there 


296  PASSERS-BY 

b  a  single  chord  left  in  my  being  which  could  respond  to 
so  clumsy  a  touch  as  yours  ?  If  Lord  Ellingham  were  three 
times  a  marquis,  if  he  were  three  times  married,  if  his 
punishment  were  to  be  death,  it  would  not  trouble  me.  It 
might  even  add  to  the  zest  with  which  I  bring  my  search 
to  a  successful  termination.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  the 
matter  would  have  been  arranged  before  now,  but  that  I 
wished  to  do  it  single-handed.  My  English  friends  are  too 
curious.  They  would  rob  me,  if  they  could,  of  this  last, 
my  crowning  success." 

Hannaway  knew  then  that  his  appeal  was  worse  than 
useless.  The  man  before  had  been  a  sealed  book  to  him. 
There  might  have  been  joints  between  his  armor,  acces- 
sible to  such  an  appeal  as  he  had  made.  He  knew  now 
that  there  were  none.  He  knew  that  nothing  he  could  say 
or  do  could  stop  the  inevitable.  He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet 
"I  can  see  that  your  mind  is  made  up,  Mr.  Leblun,"  he 
said.  "If  you  are  really  such  a  person  as  you  profess  to 
be  I  am  quite  sure  that  nothing  I  could  say  would  be 
likely  to  move  you." 

Leblun  smiled  mockingly.  "My  young  friend,"  he 
said,  "  that  is  the  most  sensible  thing  I  have  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  hearing  you  say." 

Hannaway  went  up  to  his  rooms  with  a  heavy  heart. 
He  stood  for  several  minutes  looking  out  of  his  window, 


PASSERS-BY  297 

down  upon  the  stone-flagged  passage  below,  into  which, 
only  a  few  months  ago,  that  weary  little  group  had 
turned.  He  saw  them  again  now:  Christine,  her  hands 
behind  her  back,  her  head  upturned,  her  lips  parted,  sing- 
ing with  effortless  and  weary  monotony.  He  saw  the  bent 
figure  whose  hands  thumped  the  worn  keys.  He  saw  the 
wizened-faced  monkey  gazing  around,  his  brows  puckered, 
all  the  pathos  of  generations  of  silence  shining  in  his  dark 
eyes.  He  had  found  her  again,  indeed,  but  she  came  to 
him  under  the  cloud  of  tragedy. 

The  telephone  bell  rang,  breaking  in  upon  his  thoughts. 
He  took  up  the  receiver  and  listened.  He  heard  some  one 
from  the  office  in  the  hotel  speak  sharply:  "You  are 
through  to  Mr.  Hannaway's  apartment.  Speak  up, 
please." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  a  strange  voice 
asked,  "Is  that  Mr.  Hannaway?" 

"I  am  Gilbert  Hannaway,"  he  answered.  "Who  wants 
me?" 

"I  do,"  came  the  loud  reply.  "I  want  you,  or  any  one 
else  who  will  sit  and  drink  with  me,  and  talk.  I,  Ambrose 
Drake.  I  am  waiting  for  you.  Come !  Come  here,  and 
you  shall  have  all  the  brandy  you  can  drink.  Last  time  it 
was  you  who  paid.  To-day  I  will  be  host.  Get  a  han- 
som. Come  quickly." 

"It  is  Ambrose  Drake?"  Hannaway  asked. 


298  PASSERS-BY 

"Who  else?"  the  voice  growled. 

"Where  are  you  ?"  Hannaway  asked. 

"At  the  same  place,"  came  the  quick  answer.  "There 
is  no  other.  There  is  no  place  in  London  like  it.  The 
seats  are  all  cushions,  it  is  warm  and  light,  and  the  brandy 
—  man,  it  is  like  fire !  You  know  where.  You  have  been 
here  with  me  before." 

Hannaway  hesitated.  "What  do  you  want  with  me?" 
he  asked. 

"I  want  you,  and  you  had  better  come,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  and  I  must  have 
some  one  to  drink  with  me  or  I  shall  go  mad.  Come,  I 
say.  Come,  cornel" 

Hannaway  looked  at  the  clock  upon  the  mantelpiece. 
All  day  long  he  had  been  waiting  for  a  message  from 
Cavendish  Square.  None  had  come.  Perhaps  he  was 
better  away  for  a  little  time. 

"I  will  be  there  in  ten  minutes,"  he  said. 

He  heard  the  man  at  the  other  end  chuckle  as  he  re- 
placed the  receiver.  Then  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  and 
descended  to  the  street 


CHAPTER  XXXV111 

"  fTT^HERE  is  but  one  friend  in  life  for  a  man,  one  friend 
_1_  only,"  Ambrose  declared,  his  eyes  fixed  covet- 
ously upon  the  glass  he  held  out  before  him.  "  Women  are 
faithful  sometimes,  money  comes  and  goes,  this  remains." 

He  sipped  at  his  tumbler  with  the  air  of  one  deliberately 
testing  the  quality  of  its  contents.  Then  he  set  it  down 
and  looked  steadily  at  Hannaway,  who  sat  by  his  side. 

"You,"  he  said,  "have  not  learned  yet  to  appreciate  the 
joy  of  numbed  senses,  of  artificial  life.  Why  should  you  ?" 
he  added,  half  dreamily.  "You  are  young  and  straight, 
handsome,  I  suppose.  The  woman  you  love  will  be  faith- 
ful to  you  —  for  a  time,  at  least.  Men  do  not  look  strangely 
at  you  in  the  streets.  You  are  a  reasonable  part  of  the 
great  wheel  of  We.  The  hidden  joys  are  not  for  you.  You 
mean  something." 

Hannaway  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Why  did  you  send 
for  me?"  he  asked  curiously. 

Ambrose  was  silent.  He  was  still  wearing  the  blue  serge 
clothes,  the  correct  collar  and  tie,  with  which  he  had 
started  the  morning,  but  the  clothes  were  splashed  with 
mud,  the  tie  was  disarranged,  the  collar  crumpled.  His 


300  PASSERS-BY 

eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  face  was  patchy.  Hannaway  had 
the  idea  that  he  had  been  sitting  there  for  many  hours. 

"Why  did  I  send  for  you  ?"  Ambrose  muttered.  "Why, 
because  there  are  times  when  I  must  talk  to  somebody, 
even  if  it  be  only  Chicot,  or  one  of  those  louts  who  hang 
about  the  bar.  I  must  talk  to  some  one  or  I  shall  go  mad. 
To-night,"  he  continued,  passing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head, "  there  is  a  band  here.  I  feel  it  pressing,  pressing  all 
the  time.  Sometimes  there  is  a  singing  in  my  ears,  then  a 
quiet.  I  can  hear  the  wind  blowing  in  the  poplar  trees, 
and  I  can  feel  the  music  of  the  organ  growing  again  be- 
neath my  fingers.  I  can  hear  her  step  as  she  came  up  the 
aisle,  a  truant  child,  dark  eyed,  eyes  bright  with  daring, 
but  softened  a  little  with  the  joy  of  the  music.  She  was 
gay  in  those  days,  gay  indeed." 

Hannaway  passed  his  cigar-case  across  the  little  table, 
but  the  hunchback  shook  his  head. 

"No!"  he  said.  "If  I  smoke,  I  cannot  drink  so  long, 
and  smoking  does  nothing  for  me.  Did  you  know  her 
mother?  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  I  saw  her  once  or  twice,"  Hannaway  answered. 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "She  went  wrong,"  he  said. 
"She  was  at  heart  an  evil  woman.  That  poor  English- 
man over  there  was  after  all  but  a  tool  in  their  hands,  her 
brother  Marcel's  and  hers.  They  made  him  marry  her. 
He  was  desperate,  and  he  did  not  care  what  he  did.  They 


PASSERS-BY  301 

thought  he  was  an  Englishman,  and  rich.  But  they  were 
wrong.  He  too  was  a  pauper  in  those  days." 

"They  were  bad  days  for  him,"  Hannaway  said 
thoughtfully.  "You  know,  I  suppose,  what  is  going 
to  happen?" 

A  fire  flashed  in  Ambrose's  eyes.  "I  know,"  he  an- 
swered, "and  I  am  glad.  He  has  taken  her  away  from  me. 
He  must  pay  the  price.  Leblun  is  waiting  and  watching. 
Leblun  knows.  Soon  he  will  strike.  Oh,  I  am  glad  I 
She  will  be  sorry  soon  that  she  did  not  trust  me.  I  would 
have  saved  him,  I  would  have  saved  him  somehow." 

"Not  even  you  could  have  done  that,"  Hannaway 
answered.  "Besides  Leblun,  there  is  Marcel,  in  prison, 
to  be  brought  before  the  magistrates  to-morrow  and  sent 
back  to  France." 

The  dwarf  laughed.  "You  do  not  read  your  news- 
papers," he  said.  "Marcel  was  arrested  last  night,  but 
it  was  a  corpse  that  they  dragged  into  the  cells.  He  took 
poison  as  they  led  him  into  the  office  at  Scotland  Yard. 
He  lived  for  an  hour  or  so,  but  he  never  opened  his  lips." 

Hannaway  stared  at  the  other,  incredulous,  amazed. 
Ambrose  reached  out  his  hand  and  caught  hold  of  an  even- 
ing paper. 

"Read  for  yourself,"  he  said.  "It  is  all  there.  They 
kept  it  dark  until  this  morning.  It  was  in  all  the  twelve 
o'clock  editions." 


302  PASSERS-BY 

Hannaway  read  with  a  little  thrill.  It  was  as  Ambrose 
had  said. 

"What  else  was  there  for  him  to  do?"  Ambrose  con- 
tinued. "  He  had  many  years  of  his  sentence  still  to  serve, 
and  he  had  murdered  Pierre.  There  was  no  escape  for 
him.  He  was  a  man  of  evil  temper,  and  he  was  half  mad 
with  the  desire  for  money,  crazed  with  it.  Four  million 
francs  were  missing,"  he  went  on,  "four  million  francs, 
gathered  together  by  that  little  band  of  thieves,  waiting 
to  be  divided.  Marcel  had  hidden  the  money.  He  risked 
everything  in  coming  here  to  search  for  it.  And  when  he 
came  it  was  gone.  Some  one  cleverer  than  he  had  been 
before  him.  You  look  at  me,  Gilbert  Hannaway.  You 
look  at  me  as  though  you  would  ask  a  question.  Bah ! 
What  does  it  matter?  For  four  years  that  four  million 
francs  has  been  in  a  bank  in  France,  accumulating  slowly 
and  surely  for  her.  It  was  in  her  name.  I  never  meant  to 
touch  it.  I  never  should  have  touched  it.  But  she  left  me. 
Then  nothing  mattered.  I  determined  at  last  to  make  it 
the  means  to  win  her  back.  As  you  know,  I  failed.  Where 
is  she  now?  Do  you  know  that?" 

Hannaway  nodded.  "  I  think  she  is  with  her  stepfather," 
he  said. 

"She  went  there  willingly?" 

"Of  course,"  Hannaway  answered.  "After  all,  he  has 
been  very  good  to  her.  He  was  penniless  himself  when  he 


PASSERS-BY  303 

fled,  but  as  soon  as  the  money  came  he  set  lawyers  to  try 
to  find  her." 

" He  was  not  over-anxious,"  Ambrose  muttered.  "There 
was  a  time  I  know  of  when  he  fled  from  England  to  escape 
from  her." 

"It  was  from  the  past  he  wanted  to  escape,  not  from 
her,"  Hannaway  answered.  "With  her  came  you,  and 
perhaps  others,  who  would  have  recognized  him.  I  am 
sorry  for  him.  He  has  made  a  splendid  reformation,  only 
to  be  hunted  down  by  that  brute  Lcblun." 

Drake  raised  his  glass  and  drank  slowly,  with  closed 
eyes.  "  Men  must  live  and  die,"  he  said,  setting  his  empty 
tumbler  down.  "  We  are  but  cattle,  after  all.  The  Mar- 
quis of  Ellingham  will  spend  to-night  or  to-morrow  night 
in  a  prison  cell,  perhaps.  What  does  it  matter  ?  He  and 
half  a  dozen  more  may  find  it  terrible  enough.  For  the 
rest,  it  will  be  but  a  thrilling  little  episode  in  their  morning 
paper.  We  must  learn  to  regard  these  things  as  others  do. 
They  are  trifles." 

"It  is  no  trifle  to  Christine,"  Hannaway  said.  "She 
feels  somehow  that  it  is  her  own  fault.  Certainly,  it  is 
through  her  that  they  have  tracked  him  down." 

"What  does  she  care  for  him?"  Ambrose  muttered. 
"  She  has  little  enough  of  heart.  In  a  month  she  will  have 
forgotten." 

Hannaway  shook  his  head.    "Christine  has  changed," 


304  PASSERS-BY 

he  said.  "  I  thought  her  heartless  myself.  I  do  not  think 
so  now.  I  believe  she  would  give  everything  she  possesses 
to  save  him." 

Ambrose  called  to  the  waiter.  "  More  drinks,"  he  said. 
"More  brandy.  I  have  fresh  food  for  thought  here.  I 
must  drink  with  it.  Brandy  and  hot  water.  The  bottle ! 
Good!" 

He  helped  himself  with  steady  fingers.  Once  more  the 
fierce  content  stole  into  his  face.  "After  all,"  he  muttered, 
"we  beat  about  the  bars  of  our  lives.  What  am  I,  a  poor 
broken-limbed  creature,  the  sport  of  boys  in  the  street, 
the  object  of  shuddering  pity  to  passers-by?  Who  am  I, 
to  look  for  life  as  you  others,  to  crave  for  happiness? 
Even  in  the  days  when  I  was  satisfied  and  content  because 
she  was  near  and  because  she  depended  upon  me,  even 
then  underneath  it  all  there  was  the  black  cloud.  She 
was  not  happy.  She  was  miserable  all  the  time,  dissatis- 
fied, discontented,  hating  her  coarse  clothes,  hating  her 
simple  food.  Sometimes  I  realized  it.  Sometimes  I  could 
have  cursed  whatever  power  gave  me  a  body  like  this  and 
a  brain  to  realize  what  I  was  losing  in  life." 

He  drew  Chicot  from  his  pocket.  Chicot  sat  up  and 
blinked,  looking  inquiringly  at  his  master,  who  called  for 
biscuits. 

"Chicot,  little  one,"  he  said,  as  he  fed  him,  "thou  at 
least  art  faithful,  and  it  is  because  I  feed  thee.  See  him," 


PASSERS-BY  305 

he  added,  turning  suddenly  to  Hannaway.  "His  eyes  are 
bright  with  gratitude.  He  looks  at  me  without  a  shudder. 
I  am  his  master.  Mine  is  the  hand  that  beats  or  feeds 
him.  It  is  something  to  have  a  living  creature  of  any  sort 
dependent  upon  one.  It  is  something." 

He  drank  again,  deeply.    Hannaway  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Soon,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  closing  time.  You  had 
better  come  away  now.  Where  are  you  staying?  I  will 
take  you  home  if  you  like." 

"I  shall  not  move  from  here,"  Ambrose  answered 
gruffly,  "until  I  am  pushed  out.  Where  I  go  afterward 
is  no  concern  of  any  one  save  myself.  But  I  assure  you  that 
I  shall  not  leave  here  until  I  must.  As  for  you,  go  when 
you  please.  I  had  a  fancy  to  talk  with  you,  and  you  came. 
I  am  grateful,  but  I  have  no  more  to  say  to  you.  I  think 
I  would  rather  be  alone." 

Hannaway  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  but  Ambrose, 
with  a  laugh,  threw  upon  the  table  a  handful  of  sovereigns. 
"  Money ! "  he  said.  "  Do  you  want  money  ?  I  have  played 
for  ha'pence  myself,  but  all  the  time  I  knew  that  if  I  cared 
to  raise  my  hand  I  could  bring  gold  down  from  the  clouds. 
But  what  is  the  use  of  it?  Tell  me,  man,"  he  shouted, 
striking  the  table,  "  will  it  buy  a  woman's  love  for  a  crea- 
ture such  as  I  am  ?  No !  You  know  it  will  not.  Don't 
hesitate  to  say  so.  Nor  will  it  buy  Chicot's  love.  Money ! 

What  is  it  worth?" 

20 


306  PASSERS-BY 

"I  should  advise  you,"  Hannaway  said,  "to  put  that 
back  in  your  pocket.  This  is  not  the  most  reputable 
neighborhood  in  the  world,  and  a  man  with  gold  like  that 
might  easily  be  robbed  or  worse." 

Ambrose  laughed.  "No  harm,"  he  said,  "comes  to 
those  who  are  reckless.  Death  or  a  bed !  If  both  were 
there  I  scarcely  know  which  I  would  choose.  If  you 
want  money  help  yourself.  If  not,  leave  me  to  pay  my 
bill,  and  go." 

Hannaway  rose  to  his  feet.  "There  is  one  thing,"  he 
said,  "which  I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  say  when  I  came. 
Perhaps  I  should  be  truthful,  and  say  that  it  was  the 
reason  I  accepted  your  invitation.  If  Leblun  should  call 
upon  you  to  help  him,  if  you  should  be  summoned  as  a 
witness  against  Lord  Ellingham,  remember  that  after  all 
he  is  Christine's  guardian,  that  he  has  been  kind  to  her, 
and  that  his  sufferings  are  hers." 

Ambrose's  eyes  seemed  to  narrow  and  brighten  at  the 
same  time,  till  they  shone  like  points  of  fire.  "I  know," 
he  answered  impatiently.  "I  know." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

JACQUES  LEBLUN  rose  early  on  the  following  morn- 
ing, and  made  a  careful  toilet.  There  was  no  evi- 
dence in  his  hard,  withered  face  of  any  special  gratifica- 
tion, yet  so  far  as  he  was  capable  of  feeling  emotion  he  felt 
it  as  he  donned  his  carefully  brushed  clothes  and  tied  a 
newly  purchased  tie.  To-day  was  to  witness  the  close  of  a 
career  which  he  had  every  right  to  consider  memorable. 
To-day,  with  this  final  and  dramatic  triumph,  he  was  to 
make  his  exit  from  the  profession  which  he  had  adorned 
and  create  a  gap  in  the  ranks  of  his  order  which  he  was 
complacently  sure  would  never  be  filled.  With  the  love 
of  secrecy  innate  in  the  man,  he  had  kept  his  triumph  to 
himself,  kept  it  even  from  the  authorities  on  the  other 
side.  He  wished  to  startle  everybody  with  a  coup,  a  little 
theatrical,  perhaps,  but  so  brilliant  that  for  days  he  saw 
himself  almost  a  popular  hero.  Who  else  could  have 
drawn  together  these  threads  till  he  held  them  all  securely 
in  his  hands  ?  No  one  else  knew  what  he  knew.  He  had 
worked  alone  and  secretly.  Marcel  had  died  before  he 
had  had  time  to  give  away  his  secret.  There  was  no  one 
else  left  who  could  solve  the  mystery  which  still  hung 


308  PASSERS-BY 

around  the  personality  of  that  man  who  had  escaped 
from  the  house  in  the  Place  Noire  one  November  night. 
He  himself  was  about  to  solve  it  It  was  a  wonderful 
day,  this. 

He  descended  to  the  barber's  shop,  was  shaved,  and 
after  critically  examining  his  hair  decided  to  have  it  cut. 
He  sent  for  his  hat  and  had  it  ironed  while  he  waited. 
Then,  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  issuing  from  the  hotel,  a 
hansom  drew  up,  and  a  small  familiar  figure  descended 
from  it.  It  was  Ambrose  who  stood  hat  in  hand  upon  the 
pavement. 

"Monsieur  Leblun,"  he  said,  "can  I  have  a  moment's 
conversation  with  you?" 

The  great  detective  hesitated.  He  guessed  very  well 
why  this  man  was  seeking  him  out.  He  had  of  course 
brought  him  information  wholly  superfluous,  information 
for  which  he  would  probably  require  payment.  Yet, 
after  all,  he  was  a  necessary  witness  in  the  prosecution. 
His  good-will  was  worth  securing.  Then  again,  it  was 
very  seldom  indeed  that  Leblun  refused  to  listen  to  any- 
thing which  anybody  might  have  to  say.  He  responded, 
therefore,  with  courtesy  to  Ambrose's  request. 

"I  can  spare  a  few  minutes,"  he  said.  "I  was  just 
going  out.  Perhaps  we  could  drive  a  little  way  together  ?" 

Ambrose  shook  his  head.  "My  voice,"  he  said,  "is  not 
strong.  I  cannot  talk  in  all  this  roar.  If  you  will  give  me 


PASSERS-BY  309 

five  minutes  in  your  room  I  think  I  can  promise  that  you 
will  find  my  information  worth  while." 

Leblun  turned  back  to  the  elevator  and  rang  the  bell. 
Together  they  mounted  to  the  eighth  story.  Leblun  drew 
his  key  from  his  pocket,  unlocked  the  door,  and  they  en- 
tered the  little  suite  of  rooms.  Ambrose  nodded  as  he 
looked  around. 

"Very  charming!"  he  remarked.  "Very  nice  rooms, 
Monsieur  Leblun." 

"I  find  them  convenient,"  Leblun  answered,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  his  companion.  "Will  you  sit  down?  Or 
perhaps  what  you  have  to  say  will  scarcely  take  long 
enough  to  render  it  worth  while?" 

"I  come,"  Ambrose  said,  "from  the  house  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Ellingham." 

Leblun  bowed.    "  Indeed ! "   he  said. 

"They  were  kind  enough,"  he  continued,  "to  receive 
me.  I  was  shown  into  the  breakfast-room.  Lord  Elling- 
ham sat  there  dictating  letters  to  his  secretary.  His  wife 
was  by  his  side.  She  was  holding  his  hand  when  I  went 
in.  Mademoiselle  Christine  —  you  may  remember  her, 
perhaps,  —  she  too  was  in  the  room." 

"  Most  interesting ! "   Leblun  murmured. 

"They  were  kind  to  me,"  Ambrose  continued,  "but  it 
was  not  difficult  for  one  who  notices  things,  like  yourself, 
Monsieur  Leblun,  or,  in  a  smaller  way,  myself  —  it  was 


310  PASSERS-BY 

not  difficult,  I  say,  to  realize  that  they  were  living  in  the 
shadow  of  some  fear.  The  marchioness  —  a  very  beauti- 
ful woman  that  —  was  pale,  and  there  were  rings  under 
her  eyes.  She  looked  always  at  her  husband,  as  though 
she  feared  to  lose  him.  Lord  Ellingham  himself  seemed 
like  a  man  whose  thoughts  are  in  another  world.  Chris- 
tine, my  dear  companion  Christine,  was  crying." 

"All  this,"  Leblun  remarked  politely,  "interests  me 
exceedingly.  A  little  family  group,  suffering,  perhaps, 
from  fear  of  some  impending  trouble.  Still,  I  scarcely 
see  —  you  will  excuse  me,  I  know  —  but  I  scarcely  see 
why  the  recital  of  it  has  procured  for  me  the  pleasure  of 
this  visit  ?  " 

"The  fear  of  impending  trouble,"  Ambrose  repeated. 
"That  is  good.  The  fear  is  there,  and  the  trouble  is 
there.  Monsieur  Leblun,  they  sit  there  and  they  listen  for 
your  footsteps.  They  listen  for  your  ring.  They  listen 
for  a  servant  to  throw  open  the  door  and  announce, 
'Monsieur  Leblun!'" 

The  detective  nodded  gravely.  "It  was  in  my  mind," 
he  admitted  cautiously,  "to  pay  a  visit  to  the  household 
you  mention." 

Ambrose  nodded.  "Five  years  ago,"  he  said,  "that 
man  Ellingham  was  a  criminal,  not  a  vicious  one  ever,  yet 
certainly  a  criminal.  Retribution  comes  to  him  a  little 
late." 


PASSERS-BY  311 

The  detective  bowed.  All  the  time  he  was  watching 
his  companion.  He  was  not  sure  what  this  visit  might 
portend. 

"I  am  one  of  those,"  Ambrose  continued,  "who  may 
be  called  lookers-on  at  this  game  of  life.  I  have  no  part 
or  share  in  it.  Kicks  and  buffets  of  fortune  I  have  known, 
hunger  and  thirst  I  have  known,  but  the  joys  which  come 
to  other  men  pass  me  by.  Therefore,  Monsieur  Leblun, 
I  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  have  a  heart.  I  am  like 
you.  I  can  watch  suffering  without  flinching.  I  can  see 
other  men  in  agony,  and  it  either  amuses  or  bores  me,  ac- 
cording to  my  humor.  You  too,  Monsieur  Leblun,  are 
like  that." 

"Perhaps,"  Leblun  assented,  a  little  impatiently.  "But 
I  presume  that  it  was  not  to  discuss  my  characteristics  that 
you  paid  me  this  visit?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  Ambrose  answered.  "There  was 
a  little  proposition  I  wished  to  make.  It  may  sound 
ridiculous  to  you.  I  trust  that  when  it  is  made  you  will 
not  think  too  scornfully  of  me.  But,  indeed,  there  were 
days,  before  I  was  as  you  see  me  now,  when  the  girl 
Christine  was  a  child  in  short  frocks  —  there  were  days, 
I  say,  which  I  have  not  altogether  forgotten,  when  she  was 
in  a  sense  a  part  of  my  life.  I  will  not  weary  you  with 
details.  I  will  only  say  that  when  her  mother  was  led 
away  in  Paris  into  becoming  the  associate  of  gamblers  and 


312  PASSERS-BY 

thieves,  when  Christine  escaped  from  that  house  for  fear 
of  unutterable  things,  it  was  to  me  she  came.  For  years 
we  crept  about  the  world  together.  Somehow  or  other  a 
slight  weakness  seems  to  have  developed  itself  in  my 
nature.  If  I  could  I  would  do  her  a  kindness." 

Leblun  had  ceased  even  his  polite  interjections.  He 
glanced  meaningly  at  the  clock  and  back  again  quickly 
at  his  visitor. 

"This  morning,"  Ambrose  continued,  "she  threw  her- 
self on  her  knees  before  me,  she  even  raised  her  lips  to 
mine.  We  were  alone  for  a  moment.  She  had  come  into 
the  hall  with  me,  and  she  had  drawn  me  into  another 
room.  Do  you  know  what  it  was  that  she  begged  of  me, 
Monsieur  Leblun?" 

The  detective  shook  his  head  slowly.  "It  is  not  for  me 
to  imagine,"  he  answered  coldly. 

"She  asked  me  to  come  to  you,  to  beg  you  to  stay  your 
hand,"  Ambrose  said  thoughtfully.  "A  strange  errand, 
you  will  think,  yet  I  offer  you  a  consideration." 

"A  consideration  of  four  million  francs,  I  presume?" 
the  detective  remarked. 

"Monsieur  Leblun,"  Ambrose  replied,  with  a  little 
bow,  "you  are  marvelous.  Those  others  who  rushed 
about  so  clumsily,  seeking  for  the  money,  they  did  not 
guess  that  a  man  who  lived  in  rags,  a  poor  creature  like 
me,  might  know  where  that  money  was.  But  I  do.  and  it 


PASSERS-BY  313 

is  yours  if  you  abandon  that  visit  to  the  Marquis  of 
Ellingham." 

Jacques  Leblun  looked  coldly  upon  his  visitor.  His 
face  did  not  change  a  muscle,  but  he  came  a  little  forward, 
advancing  toward  the  door.  "Ambrose  Drake,"  he  said, 
"I  looked  upon  you  as  a  man  of  some  intelligence,  yet  you 
come  here  and  you  offer  me  a  bribe  of  stolen  money, 
which  I  know  perfectly  well  how  to  become  possessed  of 
to-morrow.  There  are  various  little  documents  which  I 
am  sending  to  headquarters  to-night.  In  them,  I  may 
tell  you  without  any  breach  of  confidence  now,  the  little 
matter  of  your  four  million  francs  is  fully  dealt  with." 

Ambrose  sighed.  "I  fear,  then,"  he  said,  "that  my 
intervention  is  useless." 

"Absolutely!"  Leblun  answered,  with  the  first  note  of 
actual  impatience  in  his  tone.  "There  is  no  bribe  in  this 
world,  nor  any  persuasion,  which  could  save  Lord  El- 
lingham." 

"Except  this!"  Ambrose  answered,  with  a  sudden 
spring. 

Jacques  Leblun  lay  quite  still  upon  the  floor,  and  there 
was  very  little  to  show  that  he  was  dead.  His  face  was 
pallid,  and  his  lips  were  a  little  twisted  in  that  last  effort  to 
shout  for  help.  So  truly  had  Ambrose  driven  home  his 
knife  that  there  was  scarcely  a  drop  of  blood  to  be  seen 


314  PASSERS-BY 

upon  his  chest-  Nevertheless,  a  great  career  had  ended. 
In  a  sense,  his  words  had  been  prophetic.  The  career  of 
which  he  had  been  so  proud  had  terminated  that  day. 

Ambrose  stood  for  a  moment  breathing  quickly,  trem- 
bling a  little  with  the  effort  which  he  had  used.  Then  he 
stepped  over  the  prostrate  body  and  made  his  way  to  the 
writing-table.  There  were  five  letters  there,  all  stamped 
and  addressed  —  one  to  the  chief  of  police  in  Paris,  one  to 
Scotland  Yard,  another  to  the  Minister  of  Justice  in  France. 
One  by  one  he  threw  them  into  the  still  smoldering  fire, 
lit  matches,  watched  them  consumed,  raked  over  the 
ashes,  put  more  coal  upon  the  fire.  Then,  without  hesita- 
tion, he  searched  the  man's  pockets,  destroyed  every  paper 
he  could  find,  transferred  the  pocket-book,  with  its  wad  of 
bank-notes,  to  his  own  pocket.  He  searched  the  room 
for  more  papers.  There  were  none.  His  task  was 
ended! 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Silence  for  a  moment, 
and  then  the  sound  of  a  key.  Only  just  in  time,  Ambrose 
shot  the  bolt  and  then  stepped  back.  The  knock  was  re- 
peated, more  loudly  still.  There  was  whispering  outside, 
the  knocking  grew  louder  and  more  persistent.  Ambrose 
gave  one  more  look  around  the  room.  Then  he  walked 
to  the  window  and  threw  up  the  sash.  Far  below  were 
the  tops  of  the  trees  in  the  Embankment  gardens.  Beyond 
was  the  Thames,  unusually  brilliant  in  the  stream  of  clear 


PASSERS-BY  315 

winter  sunshine.  A  soft  wind  was  blowing.  The  sky  was 
almost  blue.  Ambrose  closed  his  eyes. 

"Let  me  forget,"  he  murmured.  "I  want  to  think  of 
the  poplar  trees,  and  the  organ,  and  the  little  girl  who 
stole  down  through  the  meadows,  across  the  river,  up  the 
path,  up  the  stone-flagged  aisle.  Yes,  I  hear  her  feet  1 " 

The  knocking  at  the  door  became  a  thunder.  Once 
more  Ambrose  closed  his  eyes. 

"Christine!"  he  said.     "Christine!" 

His  left  wrist  stiffened  upon  the  window-sill. 

"  Christine ! "  he  murmured  once  more,  and  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  "IV  ff  USIC  and  starlight,  the  laughter  of  fair  women, 

i-»-i.  the  company  of  those  we  love!"  Lord  Elling- 
ham  exclaimed,  raising  his  glass.  "What  is  there  left  in 
life  for  which  we  could  ask?" 

"Nothing,"  Gilbert  Hannaway  declared,  with  convic- 
tion. "If  this  is  a  toast,  I  drink  to  it." 

They  were  a  partie  carree,  dining  out  of  doors  in  the 
courtyard  of  an  ancient  but  fashionable  Parisian  hotel. 
The  round  table  at  which  they  sat  was  brilliant  with  silver, 
beautiful  cut  glass,  and  drooping  clusters  of  scarlet  flowers. 
A  few  yards  away  the  water  from  a  dainty  fountain  fell 
with  a  soft  insistent  splash  into  a  marble  basin.  A  band 
was  playing  quiet  music  in  some  hidden  retreat.  All 
around  them  were  other  little  parties  of  diners;  beyond, 
the  high  gray  walls  which  screened  the  hotel  gardens  from 
observation.  Chicot,  fat  and  sleek,  but  with  his  face  more 
wrinkled  than  ever,  reclined  upon  a  chair,  regarding  with 
disdain  a  small  gold  bracelet  on  his  arm. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  the  marchioness  murmured,  "and  yet 
in  a  way  it  is  a  little  unnatural.  From  the  silence,  the 
breeze  in  the  trees,  the  open  skies,  we  should  be  buried 


PASSERS-BY  317 

somewhere  in  the  country,  surrounded  by  woods  and 
meadows  and  hills.  And  here  we  are  in  the  heart  of  Paris. 
Scarcely  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  is  the  Boulevard.  One 
can  even  hear  the  roar  if  one  listens." 

"One  need  not  listen,"  Christine  remarked,  smiling. 
"As  for  me,  I  think  that  I  have  heard  enough  of  the  tumult 
of  cities  to  last  me  all  my  life.  I  am  looking  forward  to 
spending  the  rest  of  it  in  the  quiet  places." 

"  It  is  fortunate,"  Hannaway  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  that 
my  home  is  in  the  country." 

The  marchioness  leaned  toward  her  husband.  "You 
have  told  me  nothing,"  she  murmured,  "about  your 
interview." 

He  smiled.  "There  is  very  little  to  be  told,"  he  said. 
"I  was  received  by  the  chief  of  police,  and  introduced  to 
two  members  of  the  government.  We  talked  intimately 
for  more  than  an  hour.  I  learned  from  them,  among  other 
things,  that  Leblun  had  never  communicated  to  them  any 
of  his  suspicions.  They  had  absolutely  no  idea  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  person  for  whom  he  was  searching  in 
London." 

She  shivered  a  little.  "  It  was  dangerous,  was  it  not,  to 
open  the  subject  at  all?"  she  asked. 

"It  was  dangerous,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  "but  I  was 
very  anxious  to  turn  down  that  page  and  seal  it  fast.  I 
am  more  than  ever  glad  now  that  I  determined  to  do  so. 


318  PASSERS-BY 

We  avoided,  of  course,  anything  in  the  nature  of  direct 
statements.  The  case  I  put  to  them  was  a  supposititious 
one,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  they  understood.  The  resti- 
tution of  the  four  million  francs  made  everything  exceed- 
ingly easy." 

"You  will  never  be  troubled  again?"  she  said 
softly. 

"Never  again,"  he  answered.  "I  have  the  word  of  one 
of  the  greatest  men  in  this  country." 

"And  poor  Christine,"  she  said,  "has  lost  her  fortune." 

"Christine,"  he  declared,  "will  have  to  come  to  me  for 
a  dowry." 

Christine  sighed  and  stroked  Chicot.  "I  am  afraid," 
she  said,  "  that  it  will  never  be  necessary." 

"Let  me  relieve  you  of  all  fears,"  Hannaway  said.  "I 
am  so  urgent  a  suitor  that  I  declare  at  once  that  the  matter 
of  a  dowry  does  not  interest  me." 

The  marquis  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  "You 
are  the  son-in-law  for  me,"  he  declared.  "What  with  an 
extravagant  wife  and  my  falling  rents,  it  will  be  a  godsend 
to  have  some  one  from  whom  I  can  borrow  money.  Now 
ivhat  are  you  people  going  to  do  ?  Margaret  and  I  are  due 
at  the  embassy.  In  fact  we  are  rather  overdue  now.  Do 
you  want  to  send  for  tickets  for  the  theater?" 

Christine  shook  her  head.  "We  are  going  to  drive  in 
the  Bois,"  she  said.  "I  am  going  to  sit  hand  in  hand  with 


PASSERS-BY  319 

Gilbert,  and  I  am  going  to  try  to  make  up  my  mind 
whether  it  will  ever  be  possible  for  me  to  marry  him." 

"We  shall  see  you  later,  then,"  the  marquis  remarked. 
"You  are  ready,  Margaret?" 

They  left  the  table  together  and  made  their  way  toward 
the  hotel  entrance,  a  very  notable  couple.  The  mar- 
chioness, with  the  figure  of  a  girl,  the  carriage  of  an  em- 
press, and  the  toilet  of  a  Parisian,  excited  the  admiration 
of  every  one.  The  marquis,  too,  slender,  distinguished 
looking,  seerned  years  younger  than  a  few  months  back. 
His  servant  was  waiting  in  the  foyer  with  his  coat  and 
hat.  The  marchioness  turned  toward  the  elevator. 

"  I  told  Hortense,"  she  said,  "  that  I  would  come  up  for 
my  things.  She  was  so  afraid  that  the  breeze  in  the  gar- 
den would  disarrange  my  coiffure.  Francis." 

"My  dear?"  he  answered. 

"You  don't  think,"  she  asked,  "that  Christine  regrets 
the  loss  of  her  fortune?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  answered  gravely.  "You  must 
remember  that  though  it  has  lain  for  all  these  years  banked 
in  her  name  she  knows  whence  it  came.  There  was  no 
course  open  to  her  but  to  return  it." 

"I  wonder,"  she  murmured,  "what  that  strange  little 
man  would  have  said?" 

"I  think,"  the  marquis  answered,  "that  he  would  have 
approved.  Half  mad  though  he  was,  there  was  one  thing 


320  PASSERS-BY 

at  least  in  which  he  was  sincere,  and  that  was  his  devo- 
tion to  Christine  and  his  desire  for  her  happiness." 

The  marchioness  nodded  thoughtfully.  "You  are 
right,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  am  sure  that  you  are 
right." 

They  drove  off  together  a  few  minutes  later,  in  an  elec- 
tric coupe".  Her  hand  stole  into  his. 

"This  is  really  the  end  of  it,  then,  Francis,"  she  said, 
"the  end  of  our  nightmare?" 

"It  is  finished,"  he  answered.  "I  suppose  an  impar- 
tial person  would  say  that  I  am  very  lucky,  that  I  got  off 
very  lightly.  Yet  I  did  discover  that  hell  is  not  a  mere 
scriptural  parable.  I  felt  the  flames,  Margaret.  I  think 
they  have  left  their  mark  forever." 

"  It  is  over  and  done  with  now,"  she  said  softly. 

He  raised  her  fingers  to  his  lips.  "It  has  taught  me 
more  than  endurance,"  he  said  fondly.  "I  think  it  has 
brought  us  closer  together  for  all  the  years." 

"For  all  the  years!"  she  echoed,  pressing  his  hand 
gently. 

Hannaway  would  have  called  for  an  automobile,  but 
Christine  stopped  him. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  be  really  bourgeois  to-night. 
I  want  one  of  those  little  crazy  voitures  ordinaires.  Once  I 
used  to  watch  the  couples  drive  out  in  them,  up  the  Champs 


PASSERS-BY  321 

Elyse"es,  on  Sundays,  and  envy  them.  I  want  to  see  what 
it  feels  like." 

He  laughed  as  he  handed  her  in  and  arranged  a  mat  for 
Chicot.  "Well,  there  are  rubber  tires,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said.  "I  warn  you,  though,  that  I  shall  insist  upon  hold- 
ing your  hand." 

"I  should  be  very  much  annoyed  if  you  did  not,"  she 
answered,  laughing.  "In  fact,  I  believe  that  when  we  get 
right  up  in  the  Bois  it  will  be  quite  the  correct  thing  for 
you  to  assume  that  I  need  even  further  support.  Gilbert, 
what  a  wonderful  night!  Look  at  the  stars,  and  look  at 
the  lights  in  front  here,  on  the  Place  Concorde  and  up  the 
Champs  Elyse"es." 

"It  is  a  wonderful  world,"  he  answered.  "Wonderful 
when  I  realize  that  we  are  sitting  here  side  by  side,  when 
I  remember  the  long  years  that  I  spent,  looking  every- 
where, in  every  street  of  every  city,  for  you." 

"  It  is  so  hard  for  me  to  believe  that,  even  now,"  she  re- 
marked thoughtfully.  "What  was  there  about  me,  in 
those  days,  to  attract  you  ?  I  was  sullen  and  fierce.  My 
temper  had  been  ruined.  I  was  suspicious  of  everybody." 

He  shook  his  head.  "What  it  was  I  cannot  tell,"  he  an- 
swered. "Yet  it  is  strange  that  you  did  not  guess.  I  used 
to  hang  about  at  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  when  you  sang  in 
the  Place  Madeleine.  I  used  even  to  follow  you  and  Am- 
brose to  your  next  place,  and  stand  there  again.  You 

21 


322  PASSERS-BY 

would  never  talk  to  me.  You  seemed  always  to  look  me 
through  and  through,  as  though  I  were  some  person  be- 
longing to  another  world,  whose  five-franc  pieces,  perhaps, 
were  useful  to  Chicot  and  to  Ambrose,  but  whom  you  your- 
self regarded  with  the  most  supreme  and  absolute  indiffer- 
ence. Yet  yon  smiled  at  me  once  or  twice  —  a  wonderful 
smile  it  was,  Christine." 

She  laughed.  "Well,"  she  said,  "we  will  not  talk  of 
those  days.  After  all,  they  were  terrible.  I  was  never 
happy,  even  when  we  were  successful.  I  wanted  every- 
thing I  had  not.  I  was  cruel  to  Ambrose.  I  was  possessed 
with  a  rabid  and  unwholesome  craving  for  luxury." 

"Your  life  was  not  natural,"  he  said  quietly.  "Your 
very  association  with  so  strange  a  creature  as  Ambrose 
Drake  was  enough  to  unsettle  you." 

She  nodded  thoughtfully.  "I  must  not  think  of  him," 
she  said.  "  It  makes  me  sad.  And  to-night  I  do  not  want 
to  be  sad.  Gilbert,  what  a  stream  of  people !  Are  they  all 
lovers,  I  wonder?" 

"In  Paris,"  he  answered,  "the  whole  world  loves.  It 
is  in  the  atmosphere.  I  too  feel  it,  Christine." 

"We  had  better  turn  back,"  she  murmured. 

"There  is  no  turning  back,"  he  answered.  "I  think 
we  have  come  far  enough  for  me  to  offer  you  that  other 
support,  Christine,  and  I  think  we  have  come  far  enough 
in  life  for  you  to  give  me  both  these  hands,  and  to  tell  me 


PASSERS-BY  323 

that  never  again  in  the  world  need  I  go  wandering  from 
city  to  city,  striving  always  to  realize  a  beautiful  dream. 
The  dream  has  become  life,  Christine!  The  dream  is 
you!" 

The  road  was  narrow,  and  the  arching  trees  touched 
overhead.  Their  lips  met  for  one  long  moment.  Then 
she  drew  him  a  little  toward  her  with  an  impulsive  gesture. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  go  out  to  look  for  any  more  such 
dreams,"  she  said.  "  I  am  tired  of  wandering  in  foreign 
countries.  I  am  tired  of  being  homeless.  I  want  to  belong 
somewhere,  Gilbert." 

A  little  reckless,  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  "You  belong 
to  me,"  he  said.  "The  other  days  are  finished." 

Chicot  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  up  at  them  with  a 
little  yawn.  Some  latent  —  or  was  it  lingering  ?  —  instinct 
of  delicacy  induced  him  to  turn  his  head.  He  looked 
steadily  out  into  the  black  shadows  of  the  Bois.  His  eyes 
were  set,  his  face  was  more  wrinkled  than  ever.  So  the 
crazy  little  carriage  rumbled  on  into  one  of  the  broader 
thoroughfares.  The  coachman  cracked  his  whip,  they 
took  their  place  in  the  stream  of  vehicles,  the  bicycles  with 
illuminated  balloons,  the  swiftly  rushing  automobiles  with 
their  flaring  lights. 

THE  END 


A  dashing  tale  oj  love  and  adventure 


THE 
KINGDOM  OF  EARTH 


By  ANTHONY  PARTRIDGE 

Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Wenzell.    12rao.     Cloth.    $1.50 


The  characters  are  strongly  drawn  and  there  is  an 
absorbing  love  theme.  —  Pittsburg  Post. 

Beaches  thrilling  climaxes  and  always  keeps  the  reader's 
interest  whetted  to  a  razor's  edge.  —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

A  swinging,  >  dashing  story  full  of  the  excitement  that 
keeps  the  reader  on  the  qui  vive.  —  Cincinnati  Commercial 
Tribune. 

With  a  distinctly  novel  and  ingenious  plot,  one  involving 
enough  of  intrigue  and  adventure  to  satisfy  the  most 
exacting.  —  San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

Full  of  adventure,  this  dashing  romance  of  a  European 
Crown  Prince  and  a  talented  American  girl  moves  to  its 
climax  in  baffling  mysteries.  — Baltimore  American. 

More  virile  than  the  Zenda  books  and  their  imitators. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Partridge's  central  idea  is  a  novel  one  and  he  has 
worked  it  out  skillfully,  leading  the  reader  on  from  chapter 
to  chapter  with  new  complication  and  mysteries  and  perils 
and  adventures  growing  more  and  more  exciting.  —  New 
York  Times. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTOK 


An  absorbing  navel  of  a  great  London  mystery 


THE  DISTRIBUTORS 


By  ANTHONY  PARTRIDGE 

Cloth,     fl.50 


A  story  of  decided  dramatic  power.  —  Chicago  Journal. 
Written  in  striking  brilliant  style.  —New  York  World. 

A  good  mystery  story  which  is  worth  reading.  —  Detroit 

News. 

The  story  is  developed  with  much  cleverness.  —  New 
York  Times. 

A  remarkable  novel  of  fashionable  English  life.  —  New 

York  Bookseller. 

One  of  the  season's  most  fascinating  books.  Almost 
every  character  is  unusual.  —  Cleveland  Town  Topics. 

A  peculiar  but  fascinating  novel.  The  author  wields  a 
powerful  pen  and  this  story  will  produce  a  profound 
impression.  —  Buffalo  Courier. 

The  author  offers  a  diversion  quite  unparalleled  in  fiction 
in  the  doings  of  a  polite  and  exclusive  circle  known  as 
"The  Ghosts."  —  Book  Review  Digest. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


Mr.  Oppenheim's  Latest  Novel 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS 
PRINCE 


By  E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 

Illustrated  by  Will  Foster.        Cloth.        $1.50 


Mr.  Oppenheim's  new  story  is  a  narrative  of  mystery 
and  international  intrigue  that  carries  the  reader  breath- 
less from  page  to  page.  It  is  the  tale  of  the  secret  and 
world-startling  methods  employed  by  the  Emperor  of 
Japan  through  Prince  Maiyo,  his  close  kinsman,  to  ascer- 
tain the  real  reasons  for  the  around-the- world  cruise  of  the 
American  fleet.  The  American  Ambassador  in  London 
and  the  Duke  of  Denvenham,  an  influential  Englishman, 
work  hand  in  hand  to  circumvent  the  Oriental  plot,  which 
proceeds  mysteriously  to  the  last  page.  From  the  time 
when  Mr.  Hamilton  Fynes  steps  from  the  Lusitania  into  a 
special  tug,  in  his  mad  rush  towards  London,  to  the  very 
end,  the  reader  is  carried  from  deep  mystery  to  tense 
situations,  until  finally  the  explanation  is  reached  in  a 
most  unexpected  and  unusual  climax. 

No  man  of  this  generation  has  so  much  facility  of  ex- 
pression, so  many  technical  resources,  or  so  fine  a  power 
of  narration  as  Mr.  E.  Phillips  Oppenheim.  —  Philadelphia 
Inquirer. 

Mr.  Oppenheim  is  a  past  master  of  the  art  of  construct- 
ing ingenious  plots  and  weaving  them  around  attractive 
characters.  —  London  Morning  Post. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


By  the  Author  of  "Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky" 


THE 

LAND  OF  LONG  AGO 


By  ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL 

Illustrated  by  G.  PATRICK  NELSON  and  BEULAH  STRONG 
12mo.     Cloth.     $1.50 


Those  who  have  read  "Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky,"  of 
which  fourteen  large  printings  have  been  demanded, 
will  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  a  new  volume  of  Aunt 
Jane's  recollections  of  Kentucky  homes.  "Aunt  Jane" 
has  become  a  real  personage  in  American  literature. 

"The  Land  of  Long  Ago"  is  a  delightful  picture  of 
rural  life  in  the  Blue  Grass  country,  showing  the  real 
charm  and  spirit  of  the  old  time  country  folk  —  a  book 
full  of  sentiment  and  kindliness  and  high  ideals.  It 
cannot  fail  to  appeal  to  every  reader  by  reason  of  its 
sunny  humor,  its  sweetness  and  sincerity,  its  entire 
fidelity  to  life. 

CHAPTER  TITLES 


I.  A  RIDE  TO  TOWN. 
II.  THE  HOUSE  THAT  WAS  A 
WEDDING  FEE. 

III.  THE  COURTSHIP  OF  Miss 

AMARYLLIS. 

IV.  AUNT  JANE  GOES  A-Visnv 

BMt 


V.  THE   MARRIAGE    PROB- 
LEM IN  GOSHEN. 
VI.  AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE. 
VII.  THE    REFORMATION   or 

SAM  AMOS. 
VIII.  IN  WAR  TIME. 

IX.  THE  WATCH  MEETING. 


LITTLE,   BROWN,  &   CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
34  BEACON  STREET,  BOSTON 


REK 


FACILITY 


